blood in the breeze
by the-cloud-whisperer
Summary: Book 5 of Avatar Zuko. Air is the element of freedom: to discover who you really are, or who you have the potential to be, but with the freedom to fly comes the risk of falling. Azula searches for her brother, while Zuko searches for a way to master the Avatar State.
1. AZULA: The Southern Air Temple

**AZULA**

Azula has never really seen the ocean in all its awesome, uninterrupted acreage. There were trips to Ember Island as a child, and scattered jaunts around the Fire Nation in her schooldays, but always safely within sight of land. Here, en route to the Southern Air Temple, there is nothing but water, cold and merciless, seemingly benign but capable of raging sky-high in a sudden tempest, just like her father.

It is not so hard to believe that demons like him exist far down in the depths of the uncharted sea, speeding by fifty feet below the deck. In one hand, she holds a tribute to just such a demon: the evil Water Spirit of legend, a harlequin blue mask with garish lips and eyes staring emptily up at her. She'd picked it up in the ragged village of Jang Hui after hearing of the devastation the Avatar had caused there.

"Not content to play the Blue Spirit anymore, Zuko?" she murmurs to herself.

"Princess." The captain of the crew salutes her. "We are nearing the Southern Air Temple. We should be able to glimpse its spires by sunset and arrive on its shores in the morning."

"Very good." She lowers the mask to her side. "Let the crew turn in early tonight. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Yes, princess."

The slightly unhinged man working the docks back in Jang Hui had told her in no uncertain terms that their newly reanointed guardian spirit would have some beef with Azula if she so much as breathed the wrong way at the village _(false bravado, charming but misplaced_ ) _._ She did manage to get some useful information from him. It seems Zuko, having fulfilled his goal of learning waterbending, has decided to move on to the next element: air.

He's a traditionalist and a romantic, she thinks, descending the steps from the deck to her quarters. He'll want to learn airbending where the old masters walked (or flew, or floated, however airbenders got around). Secluded, divorced from worldly desires like the sages—what nonsense. If he is traveling with an airbender, as per the final reports from Meikuang and Zhao's doomed fleet, he will want to revisit their haunts.

 _Sentiment._ Back in her room, the lit candles on her dressing table stretch a little taller as she huffs out a sigh of disdain. Sentiment is such a crippling thing. Azula's strength comes from within; Zuko's comes from without. How could externalizing one's strength and motivation lead to anything but pain and weakness when those sources fade from the world of the living?

On the table next to her polished mirror rest two objects: a pearl-handled dagger and a framed picture of Zuko's cousin, Lu Ten. She laughs aloud at Lu Ten's picture staring up at her, realizing what she has just called him: _Zuko's_ cousin.

Zuko had always envied her in their childhood, but what he doesn't know is how blessed he was to have others to rely on. Azula has never had anyone but herself. Well, and…

 **HARU**

"God, I thought you were never going to get me out of there!" He follows Azula along the darkened pathways of the ship's lowest deck. "This one guy has been talking my ear off about his wife and kids the entire time. It's been what, three weeks at sea? He hasn't. Shut. Up. Once. And he never repeats himself either! He always has some new story to share every time I see him. Couldn't you have sneaked me into a nice cushy above-deck position? Then I could've avoided him."

"Stop complaining," she says shortly as they reach the deployment bay. "Your eyes stand out too much; you had to be someplace no one would notice you. Besides, I thought you'd be better suited as an engineer, what with all the… coal."

She raises the latch, and they enter. "Wow, that's a lot of motorboats," Haru remarks rather unnecessarily. "Very nice."

"Twenty-five, to be precise. Two crew members apiece, should they need to abandon ship." With a briefly charged fireball in hand, she approaches one motorboat and holds the flame to the control panel, slowly melting it.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

"We only need one boat to escape in," she says in a non-answer.

"Okay… so? Oh! You're destroying the other ones so they can't pursue us."

She smiles tightly, moving down the rows of boats and destroying each one's circuitry in brisk order. Behind her, Haru continues to puzzle out their dilemma.

"Everyone's sleeping now, so they probably won't notice we're missing and raise the alarm until hours after we've gone. But… they're in a big ship, and we're in a small boat. They can easily catch up to us," he points out.

"Your familiarity with basic physical principles astounds me," she says, dry as the desert. "This is the last one. Get in."

He does. "What aren't you telling me now? You always insult me when you want to avoid a lengthy, probably amoral explanation."

She ignores him in favor of starting up the engine. The hatch creaks open, and the ship's automatic deploying mechanism gently deposits them in the depthless ocean. Azula turns to look back at the ship. "Take us out about a hundred yards."

"Uh…" He frowns at the multilevel control panel in trepidation, but it appears to be more intuitive than he thought. They zoom away, the engine a magnified growl in the empty night. "Won't someone hear us?"

He looks back at Azula, who has suddenly stood up, tense and grim as she begins to draw lightning between her fingers. "Azula?"

She aims for the radio tower first: take out the distress signal. Then the hull of the ship: more time for it to fill with water and capsize. Then at the command room on deck, then at point after point along the body, lightning crackling until Haru's hair stands on end, until the ship is a fiery blaze falling to pieces before their eyes.

They continue to speed away, leaving the lonely ship to capsize, steel beams and towers sinking with surprising solemnity. Azula turns back to face their course, pretending she does not hear the shouts of men struggling to find something to hold onto to keep from plunging into the sea's cold embrace.

Haru clears his throat. "So, that was what you weren't telling me."

"What I don't tell you would fill several books," she says waspishly. "Consider that perhaps there's a reason for that."

"Gee, thanks." He pauses, undeterred. "That man, Qin Lee."

"Who?"

"The one I was telling you about, my fellow chatty engineer."

"He had a wife and children," Azula anticipates his words with a dull riposte. "Yes, who doesn't? Even Fire Lord Ozai does."

"Really? _Still_?" Haru asks exaggeratedly. He's not wrong to ask—he's always assumed Ozai's wife was dead, and since his children are as good as dead to him now, he's technically a free man.

She shoots him down. "Children can't legally disown their parents, and I hardly think my father signed any official divorce papers before banishing my mother for killing Grandfather Azulon, or whatever crime she likely committed."

Haru makes a face. "I was joking." That's a much bigger can of worms than he'd like to open presently. Who knew the Fire Nation royal family was even more dysfunctional than he'd thought?

"Ha. Ha." She focuses on the sea before them, adjusting a number of switches and dials until she's satisfied with their progress. "The Fire Lord isn't expecting to hear from me for a few weeks at least. He knows that even I can't locate the Avatar without some serious digging. Taking out our escort buys us time to search without the navy on the lookout for us. It was the only option."

They fall into silence after that. The boat, though narrow and lightweight, is some twenty feet long, enough for him to stretch out away from Azula and properly watch her, sitting ramrod straight, unburdened by the weight of fifty lives lost. The compass needle points due south, and he assumes she knows where they're going.

Her moral compass, though? Who knows where that's pointing.

HHH

"Just out of curiosity, why the Southern Air Temple? There are four in total, right? How could you possibly know which one he's at?"

They pick their way up the shore, still far from the peak of the mountain where the temple is located. The weak morning sun glances off patches of snow on the ground, the spring melt not yet underway.

"Well, put yourself in Zuko's place for a moment," Azula reasons. "The Western Air Temple is too close to the Fire Nation for comfort; the Fire Lord's airship base is just miles away on the western coast of the Earth Kingdom. The Eastern Air Temple is safer but much too far; he doesn't have time to spare. The Northern and Southern Air Temples are almost equidistant from the Fire Nation, so it would seem like a tossup between the two, except for the fact that the Southern Air Temple was home to the previous Avatar. Knowing Zuko, he'd definitely find some sentimental meaning in that and want to set foot in the place where his predecessor once lived."

"Yeah, speaking of that…" Haru points at the bleak landscape before them. "How are _we_ planning to set foot in the Air Temple? These mountains are miles high and nearly vertical; there's no way we can get over them without flying."

"Airbenders aren't born knowing how to fly." Azula unrolls a map, one of many she'd pilfered from the royal library before they left. "And not every airbender had a sky bison. There are hidden footpaths somewhere in these mountains. We just have to find them."

They trek over mile after mile of unforgiving rocky peaks, the air growing thinner as they climb. Even with the map, the going is slow and cumbersome, some parts of the path nearly obliterated by time and erosion, necessitating their utmost care to avoid a treacherous fall.

"I'm amazed the Fire Nation managed to take the Air Temples by force, considering how naturally well-defended they are," Haru says, just to break the cloying silence of their climb. His own voice sounds distant and puny to his ears. "It's hard enough just getting the two of us up this far. Imagine dragging a whole host of armed soldiers and weaponry while simultaneously trying to fend off defensive attacks from above."

Azula hmph's, not bothering to dignify her response with a glance over her shoulder. "We didn't take them by force. Why waste resources, like throwing eggs at a stone? If we had had Sozin's Comet on our side at the time, we could have attacked directly. But at that time, hot air balloons hadn't even been invented, not to mention war-worthy airships like we have now. No, we attacked by not attacking."

Haru watches the line of Azula's shoulders grow tense. Unlike the armor she always used to wear, it's a lot easier to see through the thin, off-red fabric of her new travel outfit. Somehow, he feels that she's become even more guarded, the closer they get to finding her brother.

"So how do you attack by not attacking?" he prompts.

"I'm sure you noticed while we were coming up here, but the Fire Nation burned down all the vegetation in the hills surrounding the Air Temple." She kicks a fist-sized rock over the side of the path; Haru listens for the sound of it plummeting to the ground below, but it never comes—they're too high up.

"The Air Nomads liked to think of themselves as above all worldly needs, but even they had to eat, and barren spires of rock like these mountains aren't exactly great for sustaining agriculture. Fire Lord Azulon gave the order to strategically raze all the crops at the foot of the mountains."

 _Well, shit. That's even worse than I'd imagined._ "Strategically raze their crops? Did you mean to say, 'starve them into surrendering?'"

"Don't be naïve, Haru," she admonishes. "The only terms of surrender we would have accepted were the unequivocal and complete wiping out of any Air Nomad life from these islands. We shot down anyone trying to escape on sky bison. It took months, but finally, we managed to defeat them for good."

"Your grandfather Azulon really had no soul, didn't he?"

"It's fitting, considering that I'm his namesake."

 _Is it?_

 **AZULA**

It takes them the better part of the day to even get to the base of the mountain that houses the Southern Air Temple. Azula lights them a fire under a sheltered overhang just off the path and settles herself down on the ground.

"It seems more like an Earth Kingdom strategy: wait it out instead of going in for the kill," Haru says, continuing their conversation from earlier.

"Well, it didn't work at Ba Sing Se." Azula picks up a dried twig and lights it in the blue fire. The flame flickers and spreads along the bough. "Not surprising, considering that the city is huge and has its own agrarian zone, and an organized military to defend it."

"Maybe we earthbenders are just made of stronger stuff," Haru suggests, trying to get her to agree, or at least to coax a smile from her.

"Hardly," she says, partly just to be contrary, but partly because it's true. In the end, everyone and everything burns out. "Some airbenders escaped, despite our efforts. Most fled towards the Earth Kingdom, where they could blend in the most easily, and that was the work of another several years, hunting them all down. That was how Zhao got his reputation for being ruthless _and_ stealthy, sailing up and down the coasts of the Earth Kingdom in search of airbenders in hiding. He was always better suited to manhunts than melees."

The burning twig between her fingers has almost exhausted its fuel, and she drops it to the ground, where the blue flame fades to yellow and then extinguishes itself completely.

"Yes, I do know a little something about that." Haru frowns at the memory of the cruel Commander Zhao. "So, there could still be some airbenders out there. He can't have caught every single one of them."

"Of course not. There's still Zuko's airbender, and there may be more besides. Zhao captured as many as he could, and when his yield ran low, he offered generous bounties for anyone turning in an Air Nomad to him." She watches as Haru's expression morphs to shock, garish and desaturated behind the blue flames. A weary sort of malice creeps into her expression. "You'd be surprised at how low your countrymen were willing to sink to earn a few sacks of gold. Zhao enjoyed boasting to me in great detail of his exploits. A hundred gold coins for a live airbender, fifty for a dead one. Five for a tip-off leading to a capture; really, he knew how to make people do his dirty work for him."

"Okay, I get it," Haru cuts across her flatly, not wanting to hear any more. "But you're talking about pirates and bounty hunters and other lawless sorts. No honest man among all the realms of the kingdom would sell out Air Nomad refugees to the Fire Nation."

The fire flares as she sits up straighter and glares at him. "No, _no,_ you don't get to choose who counts as Earth Kingdom and who doesn't," she hisses, infuriated. "Just like _I_ don't get to choose who's Fire Nation and who isn't. As far as your average fellow peasant is concerned, everyone from the Fire Nation is like my father: murderous and unwelcome. There's no home for me in either place, not anymore."

 **HARU**

Now he knows why she's grown more tense and withdrawn with every step: not because each step takes her closer to Zuko, but because each step takes her farther away from home. He watches as she stomps away to shake out her sleeping bag and burrow inside, content to banish herself from the conversation under the pretext of sleep.

 _You have a home with me,_ he wants to say, but does not dare. _You don't have to choose either place. Just stay with me._

HHH

By noon the next day, they finally make it up all the way up the mountain. As they step out of the cloud cover at last, Haru stifles a gasp at the view before them.

The path widens and flattens into a zigzag that wends its way up the side of a cliff, leading to the temple that's practically carved out of the very rock of the mountain. Wedged at the pinnacle is a central tower, several stories tall, its peak ending in a sharp blue spire that seems almost continuous with the sky itself. Scads of smaller towers surround the lower levels of the mountain, many of them interconnected by smooth stone arches that span dizzying heights. There's a flat plateau occupied by a field of wooden pillars, for what purpose who knows, and a wide grove of trees that must have once borne blossoms and fruit, but now their branches hang broken and barren. Much of the panorama before them is still covered in the last vestiges of winter's snow, and they step under an arched entryway, passing a tiered fountain that would have been frozen over if it weren't empty from years of neglect.

They come to a broad courtyard, its sweeping staircase and delicate balustrades all shallow curves and circles, like all the Air Nomad architecture they've seen so far. The balconies open wide to the mountains surrounding them, welcoming all who arrived by air to alight. A statue of a monk greets them, his carven expression regal but also full of a quiet mirth, hands folded serenely over his knees. He wears a pendant with a broad circular bead flanked by two red tassels. Three swirls are carved into the large round bead: the symbol of air. The inscription on the base of his pedestal identifies him as Avatar Tenzin.

"Wow," Haru says softly, overcome by the vastness of it all, situated in such an improbable place. "I feel like I can hear the echoes of the monks who lived here, and children playing, and sky bison… mooing, I guess. Is that the right sound? Or do they neigh like ostrich-horses?"

"I'm surprised you don't hear the sound of battle and killing." Azula points to the level above them, past the gentle curve of the staircase. It is littered with bodies dressed in dark red armor, helmets gaping with nothing to fill their hollows. "It is much more proximate."

A chill runs down his spine as they ascend and step between the soldiers where they fell. He knew they would find something like this, but it's still jarring to actually see the remnants of the last battle that wiped out the Air Nomads.

"This place is too big," Azula says. "Let's split up. I'll search the towers; you stay on the lower levels. If you see them, stay hidden and don't engage; come find me first. Stay on your guard and meet me back here by sundown."

He'd nearly forgotten that they're here to find the Avatar. Looking around, though, it seems like they're the only ones here. _Maybe he's hiding from us?_

HHH

Hours later, his search remains fruitless, and he's heard nothing from Azula. Empty rooms, hallways scattered with bodies here and there, more rusted red armor than orange robes, and he is ready to call it quits. There is one place he hasn't explored yet, though: a shaded pavilion on the lower levels near the path where they first entered. It's a miracle that it's still standing when some of the stone structures around it are beginning to crumble, but like everything else, it'll probably yield no answers.

Brushing aside the tattered canvas walls, he blinks at the scene before him: yet again, a gruesome expanse of fallen soldiers, and against the far wall, one solitary figure in yellow robes. His eyes are drawn to the beaded necklace slung around the calcified remains of a once great airbender, the same as the statue in the courtyard: Avatar Tenzin.

Obviously, they had to have killed the previous one for Zuko to have carried on his mantle, but the reality sinks into him slowly. The Avatar, the greatest bender in the world, was killed here in his own home, like a rabbit trapped in a forest fire. Walled in by enemy forces without any hope of rescue, he must have expired alone, yielding the Avatar spirit against his will.

He approaches almost timidly, which is ridiculous: these decrepit bones are helpless to harm him anymore. The entire tableau is remarkably well-preserved, perhaps because of the altitude and the cold, or the lack of any living fauna to disturb the dead. A morbid curiosity envelops him, and he crouches down by the brittle skeleton, stretching out a hand towards it, as if there is some strange blessing to be found in touching the bones of the past Avatar.

"There you are."

He whirls to see Azula standing in the doorway, her entry silent and muted as befits a mausoleum.

"I wondered what was taking you so long. I've already finished scouring the towers and the upper levels of the temple."

"Did you find…"

"Nothing," she answers crisply. She nudges a discarded helmet with one idle toe, its hollow clank rattling over stone, her mind already jumping to her next move. "That's him, isn't it?"

"Avatar Tenzin." He edges away from the body, feeling oddly guilty, though Azula wouldn't judge. "He must have killed all these soldiers in his last moments."

"That's it, then." She sighs, her shoulders sagging, resignation and disappointment exiting her in one long breath. "I was wrong. Zuko can't have come here. If he had, he wouldn't have left the Avatar's bones here to rot in an open grave. He would have laid them to rest properly like the filial son he never was to our father."

"Maybe we should do something for him then, or say a few words or something," Haru suggests.

Azula is already on her way out; she pauses in the doorway, silhouette dark against the fading evening sky. "I'm not my brother. I don't have a ledger I need to fill with good deeds," she says, cold and detached, her poise regathered in a moment's sally. "Say whatever you want, Haru. I am content to let the dead lie." The canvas walls rustle drily behind her as she steps out.

He wishes she wouldn't so bitterly deify her brother. Good and bad are not as distinct as she considers them to be: compassion versus pragmatism, Zuko versus Azula. He looks back at the smooth skull yawning emptily at him, a thing devoid of thought and feeling. Perhaps any words he has for Tenzin might be better said to the current Avatar.

As he rises to leave, he notices something: a folded piece of paper poking out from one ragged sleeve, as if the Avatar had held onto it even in his dying moments. He tugs the paper free and opens it to read the first line of a long letter:

 _To my dearest wife and son…_

* * *

 **A/N:** Notes continue on Azula's character and the Air Nomads' genocide: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/34356897


	2. ZUKO: The Northern Air Temple

**A/N** : I think I'm just going to do what I should have done all along and include actual dates in the chapter so that you know for certain how much time has passed. I would have developed a more authentic calendar, but I feel like a calendar set in the Avatarverse should have unique months and traits, and ... not really up for it. And I would like to not bring in confusion with the lunar calendar which has different months from the Gregorian. Oh well, this is probably why the show avoided any mention whatsoever of dates and times :D

* * *

 _13 January_

 **Journal entry 1. Dictated by Toph, transcribed by Katara.**

Sokka said we need to keep a journal of our travels for future generations to pass on our wisdom and nominated me to write down the first entry. Obviously, he didn't think things through as usual, but fortunately there's Katara.

We dropped Zuko and Aang off in some mountain range up north. Originally, we were going to take them right to the Northern Air Temple to meet some mysterious guru who can teach Zuko spiritual things, but Aang said that it's tradition for first-time visitors of an air temple to walk there instead of flying, to demonstrate humility and compassion or something. I'm pretty sure he just made that up to spend more time with Zuko. Well, I hope they have fun hiking up the wrong mountain and getting lost, all in the name of tradition. [transcriber's note: Toph, that's a terrible thing to wish on them. Besides, they won't get lost; they have a map.]

Anyways, thank heavens for not having to accompany Zuko on another spiritual journey. Now we're heading east with Appa, which is a relief because otherwise this would take ages. We're going to some place called… what is it called, Sokka? Kamikaze Sea? Chemical Bay? Kernicterus Ocean? Oh, I remember! It's Camaraderie Lake! [transcriber's note: It's Chameleon Bay.]

We're going there because that's where Sokka and Katara's father is. He's the leader of the Southern Water Tribe warriors, which is a big deal, and he'll be able to help with the battle plans for the day of Sozin's Comet. Sokka and Katara are vibrating out of their pants with excitement. They haven't seen their father in years, so I suppose that's to be expected. It just makes me wonder why my own family is so dysfunctional. I haven't seen my father for months now, and I… I don't want to see him, but I also feel like I should try to make things right with him and mom. I don't know. Ugh, this is stupid; why am I even putting this in a journal entry.

Okay, let's wrap things up! In summary: dumped Zuko and Aang in the middle of nowhere, hope they find the guru. Flying to some kind of Lizard Sea to meet Sokka and Katara's dad so that on the day a floating ball of fire comes out of the sky, he'll be ready to fight it. That's all I know. Toph out.

[transcriber's note: It's not stupid, Toph. You're allowed to miss your parents and still resent them for all the constraints they put on you growing up. I… I sometimes feel that way about Dad, too, how he left us so early on to go fight in the war. It's not logical, but it's what you feel.

It takes time to come to terms with, though. I know.]

* * *

 _22 January_

 **ZUKO**

"Wake up, wake up! The air's nice and crisp, perfect for bending."

Zuko cracks an eye open to be greeted by Aang's upside-down face and cheerful wakeup call. "All my life, I have been plagued by people trying to drag me from my bed at an unreasonable hour," he says, dramatically morose. "In my past life, I must have been one of those people, an incorrigibly early riser who insisted on dragging everyone else down as well. Or up, in this case."

"You could be right, considering that your previous life was my father," Aang says thoughtfully. "Maybe it's genetic."

After breakfast, they resume their trek through the ample valleys and needle-like peaks of the northern range, in the direction that Aang promises will lead them to the foot of the air temple by the day's end. It's been about a week since Toph, Sokka, and Katara dropped them off, to return by "one or two weeks after the spring equinox," per Sokka's promise (Aang: "Can you please translate that into an actual month and day?" Sokka: *equivocal shrugging noises*).

Even though they're so far to the north, the terrain around them seems lively with spring's call. The stream they're following runs clear, no fragments of ice left to hide the minnows darting to and fro in the shallows. Young leaves sprout from tree branches, the verdant green buds shocking against the grey of old growth. Zuko takes a deep breath in, and Aang is right: the air is clear and cool, not too cold, just right for being out and about.

Presently, the area they're wandering through starts to change. Zuko notices a particular marshiness to the ground underfoot, as if it had been recently soaked.

"There hasn't been any rainfall lately," Aang says when he points this out. "I wonder where it's coming from?"

They find their answer quickly as they pass the apex of a gentle hill's swell and see the floodplain beyond. In the distance, a river has burst its banks, normally some four hundred feet wide by Zuko's estimate, now expanding to at least a thousand feet, spanning quite some distance upstream. Even farther towards the horizon, they can make out a few structures, crooked and covered in debris, likely the remnants of a village in the path of the raging river.

"The Maple River," Aang consults their map, "and there's a settlement called Gusu right around here. It's not small either."

"I wonder if anyone survived? It's so quiet."

As they venture past the destroyed town, Zuko thinks about what he could even do if faced with such a flood. That much water can hardly be frozen at a moment's notice, nor vaporized. The best course of action would be to divert it somewhere else instead of laying waste to people's livelihoods. Even so, it's a huge task, perhaps only achievable in the Avatar state.

"Zuko, look." Aang points. An entire hillside is occupied by what look to be people, livestock, wagons, and carts, essentially an entire township displaced. "They made it out in time."

They approach; the atmosphere is subdued but not grave. Zuko surveys the gathered people, and no one seems to be injured or ill. No one pays them any mind at first, but as they reach the perimeter of the camp, heads start to turn, puzzled glances thrown their way. They should probably try to make a good impression.

"Ah, hello everyone," he awkwardly greets the camp at large. "Who's in charge here?"

"Who's asking?" Before them, a bespectacled, bushy-bearded man seems to materialize. He's… odd-looking, to put it lightly, but not menacing in bearing, just curious as to the nature of these two strangers.

"I'm Aang, and he's the Avatar," Aang hastens to clarify… clearly, he knows the drill by now; if he doesn't proclaim Zuko to be the Avatar right at the outset, he'll drag his feet on introducing himself as such.

"Oh, goodness, the Avatar!" the man exclaims, eyebrows dancing—they're shaved in alternating sections, and Zuko assumes this is a fashion sense unique to him. "Heaven knows we could use one of those around here. I'm the Mechanist."

"We saw what happened with the flood, and we'd like to help. Are you planning to move somewhere and rebuild your home?"

"That's just the thing," the Mechanist begins, rubbing the bald crown of his head—for some reason rigid tufts of hair stick up around the periphery, making him look somewhat volcanic.

He pulls out a complicated-looking device resembling an abacus but with far more rows and colored, labeled beads. "I was absolutely anticipating the flood that destroyed our town. You see, every year I measure a variety of factors that influence the spring melt, like the winter snowfall, the degree of riverbank erosion from previous years' floods, the quality of the soil, the average temperature, how bright the sun shines relative to the same day on the previous year, the rate at which my hair grows, and many, many other things." For each factor, he ticks a different bead up or down until Zuko's eyes are watering with the confusing, technicolor display.

"Every year, I use this to calculate the likelihood that the river will supersede its banks and flood the town, and I plan accordingly. Everyone in the town pitches in to help build up multi-leveled levees and dig trenches to divert the flow, but this year, I had a bad feeling." He shakes out the abacus, dissipating the pattern of beads he'd just created, and waves it at them confidentially. "No matter how much in advance we prepared, it wasn't going to be enough. I hoped against hope that my calculations were wrong, but in the end, the river's destruction was too great. Even Maple Bridge was swept away. Nothing was left untouched—except our lives. In anticipation of the flood, I mandated an evacuation of all our families, along with the entirety of our livestock, last autumn's harvest, everything we owned," he gestures waves at the scene outstretched around them on the hills, "now bereft of a home."

Just then, a boy about Zuko's age rolls up in a wheelchair so versatile it's almost as if he's walking. Controls line both arms of the chair, and his legs extended before him also have pedals that allow him to maneuver back and forth with ease, smoothly crossing the soft earth and uneven terrain as if it's level—another of the Mechanist's inexplicably effective inventions? He's accompanied by another man with a long face and grim look, his shoulders thin and slanted.

"Teo! What news?" The Mechanist hurries over.

"Dad, Lee and the others have just gotten back," the boy reports. "Huqiu, Wuxi, and Kunshan: none of them will take us. There's just too many of us, and none of them can spare the resources and space. Lee, what about Luoyang?"

The man beside him, Lee, shakes his head. "No. I rode halfway to the northern coast just to get there, but they turned their backs and said they had no way to accommodate our needs, in spite of our ancient pact."

"Hmph. Well, that's no worse than I expected." The Mechanist sighs, strolling around his son's wheelchair, hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought.

"So…you can't depend on any other villages to help, am I right?" Aang asks.

"And we can't stay where we are. Right now we're sitting ducks for bandits, Fire Nation, wild animals, the elements, and we've got the old and the young to think of," Lee summarizes dourly. "It's not a pretty picture, no matter how you look at it."

"Why don't you move into the Air Temple?" Aang says as if this is the most obvious solution.

"Oh, heavens no!" the Mechanist practically yelps in fright. "Everyone knows it's haunted."

"Haunted? No, no. There's an old guru living there, but I've never heard of it being haunted."

"Maybe it's the ghost of the guru?" Teo suggests. "In any case, haunted or not, there's just no way to get up there, unless you have ice picks for hands; then I suppose you could claw your way up the mountainside. No one besides the monks has ever lived there because they had flying bison. You wouldn't happen to have one, would you?"

"Appa is on a very important mission without me right now, but we can make do without," Aang says dismissively. "Luckily you have an airbender who's subsisted on bedtime stories of the air temples all his life. I know there's a way up. Follow me!" He leaps up as if planning to start for the mountain this very moment.

"It's not just us," Lee interjects, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing Aang with a skeptical look. "All five hundred-odd of us need to get up there, not to mention all the animals, supplies, and livelihoods… we can't just carry it on our backs up a vertical rock face."

"Oh. Well…" Aang frowns, having neglected to account for that. It's a valid problem, Zuko considers, but he hates to see Aang's optimistic bubble burst when there must be a workable solution. How do you transport a huge mass over a great distance in a short amount of time? Then, it clicks.

He turns to the Mechanist. "Mr. Mechanist, sir, you're an innovative man: surely you have the means to construct a rudimentary hot air balloon?"

"A balloon or ten, Mr. Avatar," he says, perhaps overly defensive in lieu of the affront to his ability. He strokes his hair tufts contemplatively. "Still, they require massive amounts of fuel which we can't spare if we're to make our supplies last for months."

"Luckily you have a firebender with unlimited firepower!" Aang beams, thumping Zuko on the back. "You see? No need to scrabble your way up the mountainside like a drunk fish-goat."

"Actually, that made me think of the pulley system I was developing for our grain silo before it got washed away," Teo says excitedly, exchanging a look with his father. "It's only a prototype, but I think it could work. The only thing is that we need an earthbender strong enough to anchor the pulleys deep in each level, otherwise I can't rest easy worrying that everything will go plunging to the ground from half a mile up."

"Well, luckily you also have an earthbender!" Aang says cheekily.

"Right, very handy."

"You know…" the Mechanist begins slowly, as if unsure of himself. "This might actually work. Everyone!" He speaks to the townspeople at large. "We're headed for the Northern Air Temple!"

Aang smiles. "There's that upbeat attitude I was looking for."

Zuko watches Aang as the people start to gather around, questions and concerns flying. Without thinking, he tugs Aang to his side and draws him closer to the edge of the crowd, whispering in his ear. "That upbeat attitude was in you all along. It just spilled over and out to everyone else."

"Oh stop. You'll be the death of me, saying such sweet things without warning." One hand sidles around Zuko's shoulder, resting over his heart. "Do you think the guru will be mad that we're essentially breaking into his home with five hundred people?"

Zuko stifles a laugh at the thought of the outraged guru. "I think he'll enjoy the company."

ZZZ

Under the Mechanist's excitable directions, their ascent to the Northern Air Temple begins to take form. Before they start, Aang insists that everyone drink an herbal concoction made from the roots of a yellow flower growing abundantly in the foothills before the temple.

"What exactly is this?" Teo asks, sniffing the tea unenthusiastically. "It smells so bitter." He sips a mouthful and grimaces. "I knew it."

"It's roseroot," Aang explains, drinking down his entire bowl without pause. "The Air Nomads used to drink this when ascending to the temples after remaining at sea level for a long time. It's supposed to keep away the nausea and headaches of altitude sickness. Here, Zuko." He refills his bowl from one of the many communal pots of bitter roseroot tea and hands it over.

It really is very bitter, but Zuko dutifully gulps it down as fast as he can. In hindsight, it's interesting how the Air Nomads lived in a place high above with less air to bend than down below.

"It'll start to take effect by the time we're a little way up," Aang says confidently to the gathered townspeople, many of whom are still dubiously assessing the malodorous tea. "The entire hike up the mountain should take no more than six hours for the average person. Anyone who doesn't feel up to it should probably get in line for the hot air balloon, but that's your purview, Zuko."

By noon, Aang sets off for the mountain paths with most of the village in tow, their caravan snaking up the steep mountainside like a long snake. All the while, the Mechanist has been readying a hot air balloon made of heavy canvas with a round basket, wide enough to fit perhaps ten people at a time.

"It's a purely physical phenomenon, no magic to it at all," the Mechanist explains to Zuko and Lee as he tinkers with the final adjustments. "The balloon itself is fueled by this steel burner, which heats up the air inside to astronomical temperatures, causing it to expand. The increased volume leads to decreased air pressure, causing the air inside to rise above the air outside. We're just along for the ride; the air is doing all the work for us. I've even added a valve at the top of the balloon to release air as necessary to modulate our ascent and descent, as well as some propellers that control our lateral movement—very important for precise navigation."

Zuko nods as intellectually as he can; beside him, the impatient Lee makes no pretense of comprehension. "Sir, there's no need to be modest. You're a genius, this balloon is powered by some kind of spirit magic, and I have no doubt that it will work. Now can we please get airborne?"

"Patience, Lee," the Mechanist chides. "This balloon has all day to reach the sky, but those who ride in it only have the rest of their lives to lose if it should fail. The most important thing is our lives! I won't be the one to lead us to our deaths, no sir."

Zuko looks sideways at Lee, questioning the direness of the Mechanist's statement. Lee shakes his head quietly, and he has to assume it's just another of the man's eccentricities, coupled with an unfortunate fondness for experimenting with dangerous though useful inventions.

The Mechanist insists on going in the first boatload to scope out the place and start directing the flow of people into new housing and facilities. Zuko helps fuel the fire to launch the first of many trips carrying passengers, the elderly, young children, the sick and disabled who cannot make it up the mountainside on their own two feet. It's slow going, but gradually they fall into a routine of slowly ascending, docking at a balcony-like tier on the lowest level of the temple itself, and then descending back to ground level to bring more people up.

In between trips, while the balloon is getting refilled, Zuko helps set up a number of pulleys at each level of the terraced mountainside. Each load is stacked neatly with supplies like grain, firewood, coal, and rice, with Teo at the bottom-most level directing the distribution of supplies. One by one, they are pulled up by teams of men stationed at each level and passed on to the next until they finally reach the top.

"I'm really chuffed at how well this is already going." Teo smiles up at him as he pauses at the ground level. "I've been working on this project for months; I filled about six books with calculations on everything needed to make it perfect. You wouldn't believe how much detail goes into all this planning…"

Zuko catches approximately every other word after that, "…mechanical advantage…tensile strength…static friction…" and tries to keep himself from zoning out.

"…and honestly, I'm really glad you and Aang are here. I don't know what we would have done without you," Teo says. It takes Zuko a moment to realize that the physics spiel has ended, and another moment for the effect of Teo's words to kick in.

"Don't be like that; we're not…you would've figured out a way to launch those balloons and configure these pulleys, even without our help," he says, for some reason a little embarrassed by Teo's franknesss. "It's not like we've brought about some great enlightenment in Gusu or anything like that."

"I guess so," Teo says. "But that wasn't what I meant. You and Aang gave us the impetus to actually move into the air temple. Before that, we were so hung-up on how much effort it would take to rebuild our village in another place, not even considering the possibility of relocating."

"Oh." _Gods, Zuko, surely as the Avatar, you need to be more eloquent. Giving moving speeches is kind of in the job description._

"Change doesn't come easily in the Earth Kingdom. People cling to traditions like they're the family jewels." Teo wheels himself out to stop several paces from the wall, surveying the progress of a load of farming implements being passed between pulleys high above. "But it's come here now, and we're better off for it. No one's ever lived here besides the monks, but that doesn't mean it has to stay that way."

Air is the element of freedom: the freedom to choose a different path than the one prescribed by everyone around you.

ZZZ

Shortly before dusk, they finish their hot air balloon hauls. All the townspeople and their various possessions have ascended, including Teo, who went up with the last balloon ride, so Zuko helps Lee dismantle the pulleys etched into the side of the mountain, a security measure against opportunistic invaders. They work their way down the mountain, casting the pulleys and wires over the side of the mountain—the Mechanist had reassured them that he had no more use for them and that he could easily reassemble them if necessary. Each one makes a horrible clashing noise as it falls hundreds of feet below, and Zuko thinks that they couldn't choose a more obvious way to advertise their presence at the temple. They should be safe up here, though.

By the time they reach the lowest pulley, the thought is not lost on either of them: they're going to have to walk up the mountain themselves.

"Hah…after all this work," Lee says ruefully as they start out on the path to the highest of heights. Aang's helpfully marked important turns and gaps in the footpath with bright pink silk ribbons, and Zuko wonders whose daughter is now missing her hair accessories. As evening descends, he ignites a flame in one palm to guide their way.

"It's hard to believe that the entire village has been transplanted to the temple. It's going to be so different."

"Aye." Lee nods. "It will take some time to adjust. Many people have never been anywhere but Gusu. I myself only left home once."

"When was that?"

"Oh, several years ago, a number of our men began the march to Ba Sing Se to fight in the war. I was there, the Mechanist was there, and many others besides. It's the duty of every subject of the Earth King." Lee snorts, disdainful. "But we hadn't gotten halfway out of the mountains when we turned back for home."

Zuko raises an eyebrow in surprise. "Why?"

"Well, it was really thanks to Captain Lu Ten of the Fire Nation."

 _Oh._

"He captured our whole battalion in a trap, but instead of killing us all, he let us go free on the condition that we return home instead of continuing to Ba Sing Se. It was an easy decision. No one wants to fight for a king who doesn't care for his people. Sure, the military bigshots, General Such-and-such all high and mighty on the wall might, but that's because they get glory and power from their victories. Us common folk? Not so much. All we want from our sovereign is protection from invaders, medicine when there's plagues, grain when there's famine or floods, but does the Earth King provide? Any aid he sends when we fall on hard times passes through dozens of towns before it gets here, and by then, the magistrates' grubby hands have been all over it, and there's hardly any money or food left. It's a farce, that's what it is.

"Anyhow, we went home again to tend to our own. Tax collectors and conscription officials pass through every now and then, but we just run them right out of town, and the Earth King knows he doesn't have the men to spare enforcing orders." He laughs grimly. "It's a sorry state of affairs when a captain of the Fire Nation holds more sway with the people than the Son of Heaven himself."

"How did he set his trap and capture you all?" Zuko asks, though he knows already.

"That's where I come in," Lee says somewhat proudly. "You see, on the eve of one of our battles, I was at my watch post, singing to pass the time, not really paying attention. Our reports said that the enemy we were scheduled to engage was much smaller in numbers, and I wasn't worried. But I paid for my mistake when I got captured. Their strategy was to learn the songs of our people and hide in the forest, singing them to make us surrender out of homesickness. Coupled with our already low morale, it was surprisingly effective.

"There was one man among them, though, who really instigated the whole plan. I forget his name, but his voice—permanently engraved in my ears. He sang this song of our hometown so hauntingly, I'll never forget it."

 _At moonset, the crows salute skies full of frost_

 _Though river lights shine bright, in dreams I am lost_

 _Outside Gusu, Cold Mountain Temple calls_

 _From my boat, I hear the midnight bells' tolls_

Hanxin… of course, it was him.

But then, how did he become the man Zuko met, Hanyu of cold rain and bitter winter nights? His voice gone, as if cut from his throat, doomed only to remember the Azure Dragon with his lute and hasty characters traced in ash, soon to be erased.

"Cold Mountain Temple…"

"An old name for the Northern Air Temple," Lee supplies. "Of course, the bell hasn't tolled since the monks have been gone, but perhaps that will soon change."

"Maybe."

ZZZ

By the time they reach the Air Temple's lowest tier, night has well and truly fallen, many hearth fires having been lit throughout the levels.

Zuko looks around for Aang, perhaps a little prickly that the airbender hasn't come to seek him out all this time he was dragging his feet up the mountain. What if he'd fallen off the path or some other catastrophe?

 _Idiot, it's not like you can't bend your way up a sheer cliff,_ his inner Toph scolds. _Twinkletoes knows you can take care of yourself, and there are things for him to take care of too._

They reach a wide, foyer-like, open-air balcony, and even from across the way, Zuko can hear the Mechanist gesticulating emphatically to Aang about all the renovations and improvements he's looking forward to.

"This is all amazing! I'm simply floored by how much of the infrastructure remains intact. The pipes are a bit creaky, yes, but I was expecting them to be cracked and barely usable. Instead, we've already got running water back in service for most quadrants."

On an impulse, he ducks behind a pillar to hide himself from their sight. Lee looks at him quizzically but continues towards them. Aang notices Lee approaching and greets him, but the Mechanist hardly pauses for breath as he continues to wax eloquent.

"The kitchens are fully functional, and we've got one bathhouse set up already. Cleanliness is next to godliness, you know. And the toilets still flush like clockwork! Indoor plumbing at this elevation; I'd never have imagined it!"

"How did you think toileting worked for the monks?" Aang sounds like he's trying hard to suppress his laughter, and Zuko peeks around the curve of the pillar to see him doing exactly that.

"I don't know, I assumed they flew to the ground to do their business?" The Mechanist spins in elated circles, arms spread in a passable imitation of an inebriated falcon. "We've repurposed some of those long halls on the lower levels for the animals, and once we've settled in properly, I'll start thinking about terraforming and keeping a two-way road to the ground level open so that we can take advantage of the space for crops. So much to do, so much…" He shakes his head in wonder, or maybe to restore his proprioception after spinning around. "There's even some kind of rudimentary central heating system. I can't get my mind around how it works, although Teo says it's only available in the rooms of the eastern tower."

"Those were probably reserved for the younger monks who weren't proficient yet in the art of thermoregulation," Aang says knowledgeably. "Airbenders typically use their bending to stay warm or cool, adapting to most weather extremes easily."

Zuko stifles a groan, remembering that he hasn't yet mastered this skill. Well, with any luck they'll get one of the warm rooms.

Shortly thereafter, the three disband for the night, though the Mechanist looks so strung-up that he probably won't sleep for a week. Zuko watches Aang leave through one of the arches with a faint smile, thinking that perhaps he'll follow him and surprise him.

Not a moment later, a pair of hands steal over his eyes and mouth from behind, and a whisper at his ear: "Looking for someone?"

 _You sneak,_ he thinks, since he can't quite respond verbally this way. He chases Aang's palm with a kiss as the hand is withdrawn and turns to face him.

"Did you really think you were going to creep up on an airbender _in an air temple?"_ Aang asks smugly, pressing his shoulders back against the pillar and crowding him in close.

"Teach me your ways, Sifu Airhead," he retorts.

"You—!"

"Okay, I'm sorry!" He squirms away from Aang's tickling fingers, hoping no one is still awake to witness this embarrassing spectacle. Relentlessly, Aang pulls him back and presses a long kiss to his lips, consummate with the joy of reclaiming one of his people's ancestral homes. It's enough to make anyone dizzily happy, and Zuko kisses back with as much vigor as he can muster considering he's spent the whole day acting as a human engine and then the whole evening crawling up a mountain.

"Hungry?" Aang asks as they break apart.

"Mm, no, I had a bite to eat earlier."

"Tired?"

"I could fall asleep right here." It's not a bad spot; there are a few comfortable-looking corners where he could just curl up and pass out, except…

"Cold?" Aang asks cheekily. He's got some nerve, knowing Zuko was listening earlier.

"Please tell me we have heating in our room," he begs. "We're ten thousand feet in the air, and it's still barely spring."

"I'll keep you warm," Aang promises, which is a solid _no_. "Come on." He starts to shoulder Zuko in the direction of their unmercifully unheated room.

ZZZ

"Are you alright?"

Zuko looks up from his seat on the room's single chair, having collapsed there shortly after lighting the hearth. Aang is dragging a heavy stone basin towards him, its rim about two feet high. "Yes, I'm fine. What are you doing?"

"You'll see." Aang pushes the basin to rest in front of Zuko. "Be right back."

He returns with a large pitcher of boiling water, which he pours into the basin. "Don't put your feet in yet," he cautions.

Zuko watches him go out again, confused and slightly too tired to sort it out in his head. Only when Aang comes back with cold water and pours that into the basin as well does it occur to him. "Oh… _oh._ Aang, are you sure you want to…"

"Give you a nice footbath?" Aang asks, already on his knees, one hand around Zuko's ankle, its grip comfortable and sure. "What, is this beneath my dignity?"

Zuko sighs and extends one knee, letting Aang roll up his pants legs. "Dignity should know better than to try and stop you from doing as you please with me."

"And yet here you are making it sound like what I please to do with you isn't also what pleases you." He lowers Zuko's feet into the basin, its temperature just right, the water coming up to his knees. Dignity aside, the heat is very soothing, and Aang's touch all the more so.

"I noticed you limping a bit coming up the stairs here, and I thought you'd like this." He presses his fingers into the backs of Zuko's calves, gently massaging the tired muscles there. "There are useful techniques that the monks used to optimize their gait and climb steep paths without tiring. I've been remiss in my teachings." He looks up. "Are you sure you're alright? No headaches, or vision blurring, or nausea, anything like that?"

Zuko blinks himself out of his headspace abruptly, fixing a quick smile for Aang. "No, I… I'm fine, thanks to that roseroot tea you made us all drink." He focuses on Aang's fingers working their way down his legs, from the back of his knee to the tendon of his ankle, thorough and caring in their labor, and it helps him stay grounded in the present moment. "I can't believe you remembered that plant and how to use it. And the hidden trails up the mountain, and everything you know about the ins and outs of the ancient temple and the monks' practices… everything your mother taught you, you remembered, even though you'd never have the chance to actually come here."

Aang pauses for a moment, then resumes his kneading. "You met my mother, so I'm sure you can empathize. You never forget anything she teaches you."

He thinks back to his one meeting with Jinora all those months ago, her attitude intense and unrelenting, determined to set him on the right path to becoming the Avatar. No, he cannot forget.

"I… I sent her a letter, before we set out for the Fire Nation to find Hama," Aang says, a little stilted with emotion. "Just telling her that we're safe and that everything's going well, and to take care of herself. And that I might be falling head over heels for a certain firebender."

"You told her about us?" Zuko says with probably more panic than necessary. "But—"

"Oh, relax. She's pre-approved you since the day you met. Come to think of it, I should probably send her another letter now that we're in a fixed location, so she can actually write back. Guru, there's so much to tell her, I'll have to make sure I get everything down."

Zuko smiles at his airbender, unable to resist the urge to reach out and drag his thumb along those perfect lips that part under his touch. "I love you."

"Yes, I think we established that I was going to include that bit first, since it's the most important." Aang pulls away briefly and withdraws a folded letter from inside his robe. "Here. Earlier, the Mechanist and I found this letter addressed to you from the guru in one of the sanctuaries. We didn't find any sign of the man himself."

"How did he know I'd be here?" He takes the letter, sitting up more properly to stare down at Aang. "How does he even know who I am?"

Aang shrugs. "The monks and gurus sometimes had visions of the future, or at least what the future has the potential to hold. Maybe he saw you coming." He produces a pumice stone from somewhere (maybe the monks liked to massage their soles while meditating? Zuko isn't clear on the traditions here) and gently takes one foot in hand, rubbing the pitted surface of the stone over his calluses. "I wish I would get a vision from the spirits sometime, but you have to be super enlightened for that to happen."

 _Avatar Zuko,_

 _The clouds wander with the wind, and so I wander the earth where I am needed. The Northern Air Temple will call me home when it is time. Wait for the wind to change._

 _Guru Pathik_

"Well, at least we still have some time before he comes back to find that his home has been overrun." Zuko doesn't know what else to make of the mysterious guru's words.

"The temples are places of spiritual enlightenment, but they were made with the living in mind. They were never meant to stand empty in homage to the dead."

They lapse into quiet solitude for a bit, and the scrape of rough edges on his feet lulls Zuko into sleepy pliability. He thinks about another time he stayed awake into the late hours of the night, and the man kneeling under firelight that time, also silent but not by choice.

"I was thinking about Hanyu just now, and Lu Ten," he says.

"Ah." Aang nods in understanding.

"I didn't expect this place to hold their memories too." He tells Aang about Lee's story, the threads of fate that tie them all together, and slowly, Aang's hands cease their work.

"I'm glad you're here with me, at Cold Mountain Temple." He props Zuko's feet up on the edge of the basin to dry. "It's like… coming home."

So it is. Outside, the midnight bells toll for the first time in sixteen years.

* * *

 **A/N** : This chapter brought to you by Barefoot Pink Moscato and endless loops of 少年志 ("The Will of Youth", ending credits song of Secret of the Three Kingdoms).

Notes this time contain lots of fun information tying into that battle that Lee mentioned: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/35090933


	3. LU TEN: Monachopsis

**A/N** : Hi friends! This is Lu Ten's long-anticipated return. As promised, I'm including a short summary of what happened in _brave enough to die_ for those of you who haven't read it. If for whatever reason, you don't want to read the spoilers, just skip ahead to the chapter itself. Presently, Zuko is 16, Lu Ten is 25, and Jin is 22.

 _brave enough to die_ synopsis:

\- Zuko is 8 and Lu Ten is 17 when he leaves for Ba Sing Se. While on the way to the battlefield, he comes across an Earth Kingdom orphan named Jet and defends him from the Rough Rhinos who destroyed his village. He defeats the Rough Rhinos, but Jet runs away.

\- Lu Ten falls in love with a musician named Hanxin. With his help, he achieves many victories and is promoted, becoming popularly known as the Azure Dragon of the East (a play on his father's title; he didn't actually kill any dragons). Prince Ozai and Lu Ten's commanding officer, Colonel Shinu, conspire against him out of jealousy and ambition. He also loses his firebending in a battle thanks to a chemical compound inhalant developed from the Dai Li that blocks his chi receptors.

\- After three years at war, he falls in battle but is saved by Hanxin. Both of them survive, but they are separated, and each believes that the other is dead. Hanxin returns to the Fire Nation to live alone with his grief and music. Lu Ten is captured by the Dai Li, headed by Long Feng. Long Feng and his two disciples torture Lu Ten to get information on the Fire Nation.

\- Lu Ten attempts to commit suicide, and Long Feng instead decides to brainwash him into believing he is an ordinary Earth Kingdom citizen, forgetting his past life entirely. One of the disciples, Long Shu, has a change of heart. She betrays Long Feng and assumes his position as head of the Dai Li, allowing Lu Ten, who now knows himself as Mushi, to live a peaceful life as a tea shop assistant in Ba Sing Se.

* * *

 _24 January_

 **MUSHI**

He gets up before dawn as he does every morning to start the fire, sweep the floors, and select the leaves for today's brews. In those few minutes before the day begins, before he has even the sun for company, it is easy to believe that he is the only person in the city. The thought is neither comforting nor upsetting; it merely is.

Not long after the first rays of sunshine peek in timidly through the blinds, a soft knock on the back door signals the delivery of the day's goods. Jin, the baker's daughter, smiles up at him widely as he helps her unload basket after basket of pastries, all neatly labeled.

"No red bean buns today?"

She shakes her head no. "My little brother burned the whole batch; I shouldn't have let him go unsupervised his first day on the job." She laughs fondly. "I substituted mung bean instead; I hope that's alright?"

He waves her concern off. "It's fine. I don't think the customers really taste what they're eating anyways."

"Oh, give them a little credit."

"Absolutely not, our profits would go through the floor." He twists her words to a different meaning, and she laughs gaily. "Pao once had the idea of giving out coupons as a promotional ploy. I had to point out to him that his tea is already so cheap that he would go bankrupt immediately." He reaches up to place a tray on a shelf high above, which turns out to be a bad decision, as with a sharp twinge, he overextends his right shoulder, just barely catching the tray in his other hand as it slips.

"Are you okay, Mushi?" Jin inquires with concern.

"Yes," he manages to grit out, setting the tray down and gripping his shoulder tightly in the opposite hand. "Just my shoulder acting up again. It's nothing."

Jin sighs ruefully. "It's probably the cold air I brought in. I'll see myself out; you take care."

After she leaves, he busies himself settling up a series of several kettles for a long boil, carefully avoiding putting strain on his right arm. The brews are set to conclude just before the shop opens its doors. Their clientele doesn't vary much from day to day. There are workers stopping in for a rousing cup of tea before a long day's work, housewives chatting over scones on the way to and from the morning market, officers on the beat taking breaks between shifts, but never anyone out of the ordinary. The same old man, a judge of the fifth circuit court, always comes in just before noon, sits with a pot of pu-erh all afternoon, and gruffly refuses any refills. The same young woman always spends her lunch break at the table in the corner smiling out the window. These things don't change with time. Mushi's been here for over four years; he would know.

Pao arrives sometime after the morning rush, though to call it a rush is rather an overstatement. It's more of a gentle buzz of customers, nothing he can't handle on his own.

"Any new faces today?" Pao asks hopefully, and Mushi shrugs. There rarely are. He's not sure why the man expects anything else. His business hardly possesses the charisma needed to sustain prolonged growth, and yet it somehow doesn't go under. Competition is fierce in the crowded Lower Ring. Restaurants across the street will be there one day and gone the next, owners bankrupted, new competitors moving in, changing names, changing hands like coins, yet Pao's Tea Shop (not even any sense of innovative branding) remains immune.

But none of this really concerns Mushi. He just serves hot leaf juice to customers who usually aren't lucid enough to taste the difference between tea leaves collected before and after Qingming Festival. He's wasted here, but he can't find it in himself to seek other employment. What's the point, when the end result of living is all the same?

MMM

Jin comes in an hour after dusk, when they're soon to close. That's not uncommon in itself; she sometimes visits when business is slow at the bakery. What puzzles Mushi is her order.

"Two cups of ginseng tea!" she says cheerily, tossing herself down at an empty table. There are only two or three other customers remaining.

"Two?" he asks dubiously, even as he starts to reheat water to boiling in the kettle for a fresh cup. After all, she's alone.

"The other one's for you."

…ah. She looks so young and unspent, messy hair swept up into a roguish attempt at elegance, the optimistic glow of childhood still ripe in her flushed cheeks, even under the unflattering dim lighting.

"Plus, it'll help your arm feel better," she continues as he hesitates. "But, if you really don't like it, I'll order something else instead."

"No, I like ginseng well enough," he deflects. "But you don't need to buy me a cup of tea in my own shop. I'll just brew my own." Hopefully she'll take the hint.

"Oh, of course." She turns her head to follow his movements as he brings a cup over. "Well, I was actually wondering if you'd like to go out sometime?"

He nearly spills the tea. Setting the cup down on the table in front of her, he sighs apologetically. "Jin, I don't think you'll find that to be the best time you'll ever have."

"Why, because you think you're boring and old and I won't like you?" she chirps, laughing when his tight grin tells her that she's right. "Well, it is true that your joints are old. I don't think even my grandmother has as bad a shoulder as you do, and she's seventy. That said, you really need to get out more. Have you been to Chang Sun's Lanzhou Noodle Emporium?"

He raises an eyebrow at the pretentiously long, fancy name. "Definitely not."

Her smile is nine-tenths incredulous and one-tenth pitying. "That's settled, then. I'll have to take you out some time," she decides. "You're only a few years older than me, but you've already forgotten how to enjoy life. This won't do."

She really is very charming in her persistence. If Pao were here, he probably would already have said yes on Mushi's behalf, so thank god he isn't.

"Well, just sleep on it. I'm sure you'll think it's a better idea in the morning." She finishes her cup and drops a few coins into his hand as payment. "Anyways, it's about time for you to close up, so I'll let you go do that." She rises to leave.

"I'll have you know that I'm the senior assistant executive manager of this shop. You can't tell me what to do," he says, but he winks drily so that she knows he's joking. Certainly the convoluted job title that Pao gave him is enough of a joke.

"Ah, so you do have a sense of humor! There's still hope for you." With that said, she skips out of the shop, her steps light and chipper as if she hadn't just been making zero headway in badgering him to go on a date with her.

He notices that she's given him two extra copper pieces for the cup of ginseng that he didn't drink. Her naïve presumptuousness, though nonplussing, is nevertheless rather endearing.

MMM

With Jin finally gone, he closes up the shop and heads out for a quick dinner. Along the way, he dispenses of some of the earnings that Pao counted out to him earlier. His salary consists of a grand total of thirty copper pieces a week, plus the two extra Jin just gave him. Pao is kind enough to let him stay in the tiny room above the tea shop without paying rent. Mushi takes breakfast and lunch in the shop, and the noodle joint he frequents in the evenings is dirt cheap: two copper pieces on average is enough for a decent bowl. He eschews any other unnecessary expenses, not out of a sense of thrift, but rather one of moderate disinterest in any of the pleasures of life. Jin does have a point, in that regard. It sounds like a dismal existence, but for whatever reason, Mushi doesn't seem to care—it's as if he's detached from any feelings about what should and shouldn't constitute a good life.

Whatever the case, it leaves plenty of money to distribute on the way to dinner. The streets of the impoverished Lower Ring are lined with beggars and refugees, displaced and disenfranchised, thrust into a cold city that can no longer give them anything. So he gives what he can, having once been a refugee himself.

Three copper pieces for a toothless hunchback who murmurs, "Bless you child, if only my son were like you." Four for a young mother with a baby—husband lost to the war or to another woman? His heart aches all the same. Two for a stumbling drunk who won't last the winter at the rate he's imbibing. Slowly, his pockets lighten. Unlike the faces at the tea shop, these ones change frequently.

Life, that fickle mistress, demands two constants as payment: death or taxes. Among these refugees, the lucky, able ones find work and make enough money to pay the latter. The others succumb to the former, whether by exposure, by malnutrition, or by senseless violence. There are always more to take their place. Mushi would grieve, but he has been doing this for far too long. He staves off their demise for as long as he can and numbs himself to the aftermath.

It's been a long, unkind winter, which means there are fewer than usual and more money to spread among those who brave the cold. By the time Kang's Noodles is in sight, he's down to his last few pieces.

A figure stirs in the shadow of a nearby closed shop stand, and he sees a young man sitting slouched on the ground. There's a small bowl in front of him, meant for spare change, not food. Mushi considers. To eat or not to eat? Kang's special this day of the week is beef shank noodle soup, but it's nothing to write home about—if he still had a home to write to. He can forgo dinner for a day.

Mushi approaches the forlorn figure. He looks to be in his mid-teens, but as he runs one hand tiredly through a head of unruly dark hair, the gesture is more reminiscent of one who's seen too much of life to have much taste for it anymore. _And yet we continue, because we fear death._

The coins clink noisily in the bowl, metal on empty ceramic, the first the boy has gotten all night.

"Thank you." His voice is low and strong, though muted, directed at the ground.

"What's your name, kid?"

The bowed head before him slowly rises, and he feels a spasm of imminent, inexplicable urgency before wide, trembling eyes meet his. Suddenly the boy leaps up, grace and power evident in his bearing, his weary limbs rife with tension. Mushi doesn't know what brought it on as jet-black eyes search his face intently, as if he holds the answer to life's questions.

"What are you doing?" he asks, but instead of answering, the boy turns his back and abruptly catches the roof shingles overhead in one hand, swinging himself onto the roof and away from Mushi with seemingly panicked desperation.

He left his bowl behind, Mushi notes in the confused aftermath. He reaches down, then stops. Maybe he'll come back for it?

Mushi decides to leave the coins and turns his steps towards home instead. He might really have to let Jin take him out one night, at this rate.

MMM

He stares at the slightly leaky ceiling above his bed, too rattled by the night's mysterious encounter to fall asleep. It hasn't rained yet this season, but soon it will, and then he'll have the sound of steadily dripping water to lull him to sleep.

Why did that boy seem to recognize him? Mushi doesn't think he's ever seen him before. Could he have met and forgotten such a person, long ago? He recalls the intensity of the boy's eyes on his face and thinks it unlikely that he could have lost the memory of that gaze to the thievery of time. He will definitely never forget it now.

He sinks into fitful sleep even as he mulls it over, but his dreams hold no answers either. He rarely sleeps well, his rest always interrupted by unfamiliar visions that he can't remember upon waking.

There is a man in striking armor of brilliant blue at the head of a host of soldiers, leading them onto a bloodstained battlefield. The shouts of dying men pierce the air. Mushi feels the weight of an insurmountable grief resting on him, preventing him from rising, from following the man. He can only watch from afar, looking on from the outside like a ghost.

Other visions pass in an incomprehensible blur. A spear of lightning striking the ground, painting the sky bright white. A child crying, a pyre burning in a valley far below, blackening the earth. The dark calm of a ship on a gentle, moonlit sea and the strains of a song that escape him as soon as he hears it. Sheets and sheets of paper stained black with thousands of jumbled strokes on their innocent surface, sullied by what words, he doesn't know. His hands shake as he holds up sheet after sheet to a candle flame.

One last vision stands out clearly to him: he is standing atop a huge tower, facing the dying sun over an ocean that gleams like bronze. With him is another man, facing away from him, his body tense and afraid. Mushi feels as if he could reach out and touch him, to see him for who he really is. There is a name on his lips, and he opens his mouth to speak—

—only to wake himself up, whispering into the empty darkness, "Lee?"

Lee is gone, he reminds himself. The man he saw in his dream cannot be Lee, because Lee, his beloved little brother, is long dead, along with their parents, leaving him alone.

It is not something that he lets himself think about often, partly because he can't quite remember the circumstances of their deaths. He knows they were killed in the war, that their town was destroyed by rampaging soldiers, and that he somehow escaped, fleeing to Ba Sing Se. But he can't quite place it in time, when it all happened. He knows it was at least four years ago, before he came to the city, and he knows that his family's ashes lie far to the northwest, ungathered, scattered to the winds.

Partly, though, he forces himself not to remember them because he does not feel any pain at the thought of their deaths. He doesn't understand himself. It's as if they are a mere pastiche of real life that doesn't live and breathe and hurt, as if whatever trauma tore their family apart robbed him of his memory and his heart, as if they were never actually his family.

He pushes those intrusive thoughts away, wills himself to remain in the present by focusing on the cracks in the ceiling. One day, it will rain.

MMM

"Mushi, are you alright? You've been drying the same dish for the past five minutes."

He looks up in surprise. Has Pao been here the whole time? He looks down. The dish in his hands does look quite dry. He puts it away, chagrined at spacing out on the job. "I'm sorry, Pao, I don't know what came over me. It won't happen again."

His boss squints at him, concerned expression stretching his nostrils and mustache wider in comic relief. Mushi resists the spontaneous urge to laugh. The past few days have seen him becoming quite hysterical. Ever since that night, he's been plagued with dreams of some perplexing past that he doesn't remember.

"Now that I look at you closely, you seem to be wasting away," Pao clucks. "Have you been eating and sleeping properly? I can't have my only employee dying on my watch."

"I'm not going to die," Mushi reassures him immediately.

"Well, at least go out and get some fresh air. You look like you need it. Don't come back until the evening; I can manage."

 _Can you?_ Mushi wonders but doesn't say. "Yes, sir." He hangs up his apron and walks out of the shop in the middle of the afternoon, now at a loss as to what to do with himself. In all the time he's been working for Pao, he's only taken two days off, both times due to illness.

The boisterous wail of a crying child attracts his attention. Across the street, a mother tries to comfort her child, but the little boy, who looks to be no older than four, refuses to quiet down. Passerby frown judgmentally, as if it is the boy's fault for not having the emotional experience to deal with every new aspect of this overwhelming world, or the harried mother for not having the wherewithal to appease her sobbing child.

He spies a shop next to them that sells musical instruments and hastens over to borrow a lute on display. "I'll return this as soon as I can," he promises the shopkeeper.

He approaches the small boy, making up a melody as he goes. He has no idea what the common children's tunes are in this part of the Earth Kingdom, but music is the universal language. Anything played from the heart can reach another heart. It has been a long time since he played, and he's clearly out of practice, but to the little boy, it's something new to distract him from the woes of being a helpless child in an adult's world. He gazes at Mushi's fingers plucking the strings in wonder, tears quite forgotten amid the wondrous sounds reaching his ears.

The sound of hooves and tinkling bells approaches; a donkey-drawn cart full of winter flowers clops by, and as it passes them, a single stem of pink plum flowers falls to the ground. As subtly as he can, Mushi snatches it up. The girl driving the cart doesn't fail to notice his light-fingeredness, however, so he hurriedly averts his eyes and tucks the blossom behind the little boy's ear, hoping to soften her heart and escape a scolding. It works; she smiles indulgently and drives on.

 _After snowfall, the sky's bright and pleasant_

 _Plum blossoms everywhere smell so fragrant_

 _On donkey-back I cross the river for an errand_

 _The bells chime_ _ring-ding-dong_

 _Ring-dong-dong, ring-ding-dong, ring-ding-dong, ring-ding-dong…_

 _My only companion is a vase of plucked blooms_

 _To watch over my studies and song_

 _And pass a lovely afternoon ere it's gone._

By now, the little boy's tears have long since dried, and a broad grin spreads across his face. Mushi thanks whatever gods of music there are that granted him this inspiration, as well as whatever god of children finally intervened and lifted the boy's spirits. He doesn't think he could have made up any more verses on the spot. The boy's mother smiles and thanks him, ushering her now-quiescent child away. The small group of passersby that had gathered begins to disperse, and as the crowd thins, he gets the feeling that someone on the margins is watching him.

Surreptitiously, he looks around, but there doesn't seem to be anyone suspicious, only a few well-meaning strangers cheered by his impromptu performance. He shrugs, deciding it's a false alarm, and brings the lute back to the shopkeeper. "Thank you so much."

The young man takes it back with an unpracticed grip, fingers brushing against Mushi's as they clasp the neck of the instrument. Not a musician himself, it seems.

"You play beautifully," he says as he hangs the lute back up for display. His voice is soft and tremulous, like a breeze on a summer evening. He looks to be a couple of years younger, hair in rumpled curls and eyes wide behind round spectacles making him look vaguely angelic. "I should let you keep it; you deserve it so well, but I don't think my father would approve. We do have to make a living somehow."

"If you gave me your heart instead, would your father approve?" The words come out of nowhere, and Mushi slaps himself mentally for his brashness, but what's done is done.

Miraculously, the other man finishes the metaphor with casual aplomb and no sign of revulsion. "If your skilled fingers would deign to play my heartstrings, then what does it matter who approves and who doesn't?"

There is a youthful playfulness to his words and his smooth smile, and Mushi feels impossibly out of place even as they play this game of words and heartbeats. He wills his errant pulse to control itself. Just then, he notices in the periphery of his vision what he hadn't registered earlier: a figure on the corner of the block, leaning quietly against a shaded wall, tall, graceful, and tense in his posture and watchfulness. It's the boy from a few nights ago who inexplicably fled from him.

He looks away quickly, not wishing to be discovered. Whatever that boy wants is not something to be addressed out here in the open.

"Thank you again." He bows slightly under the man's disappointed gaze and resumes his aimless wandering.

MMM

Jin marches in, head held high, about fifteen minutes before closing. "Mushi, are we going or not?" she says authoritatively, resuming their conversation from a few days ago without skipping a beat.

He finishes wiping the last table of the already empty shop and pretends to consider the question. "Your treat?" he asks.

"Of course, I'm the one asking you!"

"Well, alright then," he capitulates.

"Finally!" Jin rejoices.

"But I don't have any nice clothes."

"Who cares? I'm dating you, not your clothes." She bounces up and seizes his arm, physically tugging him towards the door with much more force than he knew she possessed. "Come on!"

The truth is that he needs to get his mind off things: the chance meeting with that strange boy, the disturbing dreams of late, all have caught him by surprise and rocked the foundations of his daily rhythms, leaving him off-kilter and irritable. Jin, if nothing else, is an enchanting distraction.

"So what do you like to do for fun?" she asks, slurping her way through a huge bowl of noodles. Mushi eats more sedately out of habit, fiddling with his chopsticks and largely failing to make a convincing show of enjoying his dumplings. The waiter had glared at him for ordering the one thing on the menu that wasn't noodles, outraged at his disrespect for the establishment's specialty.

"You know the answer to that: nothing."

"Oh, really?" She sounds surprised, exaggeratedly so. "You mean going out at night and distributing alms to the poor isn't fun for you?"

He raises his eyebrows at that. "How do you know about that?"

"My back window faces the street on your way to Kang's. Sometimes I like looking out for you. It's not the best idea, you know, making a habit of it," she says confidentially and winks. "If some lowlife were to notice, they might try to mug you, repaying kindness with evil. That's how people are."

He sets his chopsticks down on the edge of his plate with a quiet clink. "I'll take the risk. It's the least I can do for people who are where I once was."

"When did you come here, Mushi?" Jin asks. "And from where?"

"Well…" he hesitates, unsure of where to start. His past is not something he readily shares with others, but it's not as if he's got anything to hide. "I'm from Huaiyin, a town about fifty miles south of Yancheng on the northern coast."

His clarification does nothing to clear her faintly bemused expression, and he recalls her once telling him that her family hails from west of the Yuanfen Sea—of course.

"…never mind. Anyways, it was about five years ago that I entered the city after fleeing the chaos and destruction of my home, but somehow, I don't know the exact circumstances. I must have been traveling with a group, but all I remember is waking up in an infirmary in the city with bandages wrapped around half my head and not knowing how I got there."

"That's odd. Didn't anyone working there tell you what happened?"

"Yes, actually, there was the matron who took care of me." He pictures Sister Shu as he last saw her. "A lovely woman, her braids really were something else, all in pretty loops." He ineffectively traces loops in his own short hair to demonstrate. "She told me that they'd found me unconscious in an alley, probably robbed, beaten, and thoroughly concussed by some nasty types."

"Ouch," Jin winces, then perks up, her smile mischievous. "Should I start doing my hair in braids then?"

He blanks on why she would ask him for fashion advice until it clicks. He rolls his eyes, trying to appease her. "Sorry, I know it's bad manners to talk about other women on a date, but I mean… she was nice. After she realized I had no connections whatsoever in the city, she found me a job with Pao, and I haven't seen her since. I stopped by a couple of times, but the infirmary closed down shortly after I left. Times were hard; I guess they went bust."

"She really was a lovely woman, if you wanted to see her again," Jin says, teasing.

"Every flower has its own allure." He leans over and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Keep your hair the way it is."

Even as she preens, he withdraws his hand, wondering what's come over him. Lately, it's as if he's been… doing things without his own accord, some other will taking over his actions. It's unsettling, and he gratefully turns his attention back to Jin as she continues cross-examining him about his past.

"Up north, my family was in the business of making noodles," he explains. "They were the best within a hundred-mile radius, and we'd supply restaurants all over town and in the next one over. This," he indicates the bowl she's almost finished gulping down, "doesn't hold a candle to what we used to put out."

"Don't let the owner hear you talking like that!" she whispers in mock-rebuke. "Besides, you haven't even tasted these."

"It's not in the taste," he says enigmatically. "I know good noodles when I see them. I learned to hand pull quality noodles by the age of nine, and then I taught my little brother Lee when he was old enough."

"Oh, you have a little brother too!" she exclaims in delight. "How old is he?"

He stutters to a stop, considering that he would have to answer this question in the past tense. Jin senses her misstep too and tries to smooth it over. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have asked…"

"No, no," he brushes her apology off. "He would have turned sixteen this past year."

"Oh."

"Yeah…" He shoulders his way through the awkwardness; there's no reason for him to be uncomfortable at the memory of Lee, his dearest brother. "He was such a little firebrand too, always raring to move on to the next step in his training. He would overdo things in an effort to prove himself, and we would end up with perfectly round noodles that were much too long and thin to use—our parents despaired. He never understood the meaning of 'slow down.'"

"Sounds just like mine." She nods sympathetically, the conversation back in safe waters.

"Mm. It's funny, though, because he wasn't that way with other things. He was diligent and perseverant when I taught him his letters, so much so that I would never have thought I was teaching a four-year-old. And when I started him on music lessons, he really put all his heart and soul into learning the tsungi horn, even though he barely had enough breath for the instrument." He smiles wanly at the memory of Lee huffing and puffing to fill a huge brass tube that was probably bigger than him. "We used to play together, him on the horn and me with my lute and my song. I always think that if he had grown older, his singing voice would have been beautiful too. But… I'll never get to hear it now."

He's startled to find tears edging into the corners of his vision. Ensue a hurry to stretch his eyes wider so that they don't leak out, and Jin takes the hint to change the topic and start talking about her own brother, much to his relief.

MMM

"I know a place that will cheer you up!" she says after they leave the noodle house. She catches his hand in hers and blinks up at him innocently. "It's my favorite place in the city. At night, they light the lanterns on the fountain and all around and it's so beautiful."

He follows as she leads, hardly able to resist her contagious charm or more likely her very energetic pull as she drags him through the streets, away from the drunks and the heaps of fish heads and the dismal night life, into an alley that he's never ventured down. It's narrow and steep-sided, the cobblestones cracking and littering the road with potholes capable of turning your ankle if you're not looking closely enough. It's just the same as any side street in the Lower Ring, until they reach the end, where the lane rounds into a neat little courtyard, and just as Jin said, there's a tiered fountain in the middle of a lonely pool, with a ring of lampposts surrounding it. The only difference is that…

"They're not lit," Jin says in dismay. All around them is the unbroken night, and she drops his hand to stalk forward and investigate the unlit lanterns, as if this will spark them to life. Mushi stays back, watching her huddle down by the pool, on whose still surface float many paper lanterns, all barren and void of light.

At length, she returns to his side, her shoulders slumped and withdrawn.

"That's too bad, I guess," he says, his consolation somewhat ineffectual, and he curses himself for sounding so insensitive. Clearly it means a lot to her, and he can imagine how magical this place would have looked with the lanterns lit, but now it's just… mundane.

"Yeah." She tugs his arm into her forlorn grasp, leaning against his side. "Oh well. Maybe we can come back another time."

Privately, he thinks there shouldn't be another time, for fear of giving hope where there is none.

"I'm still glad we came here, though, because now I can do this."

A small smile reappears on her lips, and she rises up on the tips of her toes; he realizes her intent a moment before contact and hurriedly evades her attempt at a sweet kiss.

 _Heavens, Mushi, when did you learn to be such a heartbreaker?_

Back on her feet now, she looks up at him, bewildered. "Oh. I… I'm sorry, Mushi, I shouldn't have pushed you into this. I didn't realize you were just humoring me."

"Jin," he begins regretfully.

"No, it's fine." She drops his arm, their separation like a chasm between them. "I was just too eager. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I…I won't take up any more of your night, then."

She turns and practically flees the scene, the shadows of the houses on either side swallowing her up before she's gone two blocks. Mushi stares down the way she went so sadly, wishing he hadn't just proved himself right. _I don't think that's the best time you'll ever have._ She had hoped, she had seen something in him that looked like candles just waiting to be lit by the spark of her affection and romance, but… but nothing. Just like the empty fountain before him tonight.

The darkness at the edge of the courtyard stirs, and too late, he realizes that he is not alone with his melancholy. The strange boy that was watching him this afternoon steps out of one of the alleys that run behind the houses on this street, and Mushi notices that this time, there are two wickedly sharp hooked swords belted at his waist. He feels far less fear at the sight of them than he should.

"You should have kissed her. She looked heartbroken at the end, there." His voice, though deep and weary, carries the faintest hint of teasing, as if mocking him for being unable to make his date happy. "Or, if you really wanted to win her over, you could have lit the fountain for her."

"What with? I don't carry matches or spark rocks with me all the time." Oddly, he feels the compulsion to defend himself to this stranger. "Who are you, anyways? Why are you following me?"

The boy smiles, the lazy upturn of his lips keen and undeniable even in the faint light cast by lanterns one street over. He ignores Mushi's questions in favor of staying on the subject of the firelit fountain. "What about with your firebending?"

Mushi stares at him, bewildered. "What… what are you talking about?"

"Don't pretend. I remember you, Captain Lu Ten, son of General Iroh, Prince of the Fire Nation. You might have changed your name and place in life, but your face is no different. Admit it: you're a firebender."

Mushi laughs helplessly, because the boy is so clearly deluded, believing he's someone he's not. "Look, I don't know what's giving you that impression, but you must have me mixed up with someone else." _A Prince? And a firebender? At least come up with a plausible identity if you want to force one on me._

"Stop it," the boy says sharply. "I'm not crazy; I know who you are. You may not remember me—not surprising. My name is Jet; I was a snotty little eight-year-old whose life you saved. I'm sure that barely registered among the thousands of lives you went on to end. But _don't_ insult my memory by claiming you're not the person that you're hiding."

"I… I'm _not,_ " he protests. "Seriously, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just Mushi, not a firebender. I'm a poor refugee from the outer states, just like you."

"Oh for god's sake," Jet hisses. "I'll prove it to you." He draws his swords, a smooth action that attests to his skill and deadliness.

 _Oh dear. That's not good,_ Mushi thinks, still not as alarmed as he should be, even as the swords advance on him, defenseless and untrained.

"You stood between me and the Fire Nation soldiers who burned down my village," Jet says, stalking towards him, swords at the ready. Mushi backs away slowly, skirting the fountain. "You risked your life and honor to defend me, an Earth Kingdom orphan, in single combat against a higher-ranked officer." Jet shows no sign of standing down, steadily backing him up until there is only the cold stone wall of someone's residence behind him. "Years later, I met your cousin. He was just like you, the antithesis of a firebender: unassuming, kind, and selfless. He called himself Lee."

Mushi draws in a shocked gasp just as the blade of Jet's sword comes to rest against his throat. "Lee?"

Jet smirks, pressing down a little harder with his sword, without drawing blood. Mushi can feel its sharp edge dig into his skin as he breathes. "So the name means something to you."

"But…" It has to be a coincidence; it's a common name. "Lee was my brother. He's dead; you can't have met him."

Jet pauses, frowning at him, his sword loosening its razor-sharp hold on his throat ever so slightly. "Lee isn't dead, though just like you, he went around claiming a false name and backstory. I guess it runs in the family."

"Shut up," Mushi snarls, suddenly infuriated with how this stranger so wantonly desecrates his memories, folding in falsehoods with the mix of half-truths that already plague his nightmares. "Just shut up, you don't know what you're talking about." He pushes at Jet's shoulders, dislodges the sword threatening him, and tries to squirm out of the way, but Jet moves too quickly, blocking him with a quick slash.

"His name wasn't actually Lee, it's Zuko," he says casually as Mushi ducks under his other blade.

More lies. Mushi tries to circumvent his reach, but with two swords, he's trapped within the circle of their lethal gleam. " _Stop it_."

"Hmph," Jet snorts, not even breaking a sweat as he easily blocks Mushi's escape again and again. "You know, I tried to kill him, for some very misguided reasons."

None of this makes any sense, he thinks wildly, he and Jet are not even talking about the same person, Lee and Zuko or whoever _are not the same._ His head is pounding with bottled-up rage that comes from nowhere, anger and power that he needs to channel somewhere or it will explode—

"I don't want to kill _you_ , though, that would be a poor repayment indeed. I just need to make you remember what you seem to have forgotten, which is _everything,_ including your firebending, your identity, the people you used to love."

And now he has struck the nail on the head. _Used to love._ In his guilt-ridden fury, Mushi knows no fear, just takes his two fingers and means to impotently stab them into those taunting, jet-black eyes—

Only for Jet to throw himself aside as a spark of flame pulses from Mushi's fingers, shooting through the air and striking one of the lanterns atop the fire fountain, lighting it into merry warmth and cheer.

 _What on earth…?_

Mushi stares, Jet stares, and likely the two of them would have kept on staring in mute disbelief if they hadn't heard the sound of footsteps, at least two pairs, rushing towards them.

"We've got to get out of here," Jet whispers urgently, grabbing his arm, the very one that just somehow shot bright flame into existence. "We can't let them find us here, come on!"

"What?! Why are you—" He's already being dragged by Jet's implacable rush away from the scene, even as a shout rings out at the edge of the courtyard.

"Halt!" Several figures in dark-green robes with rounded hats sporting the Earth King's symbol—even Mushi knows these are the notorious Dai Li, famed for their ruthless competence in rounding up troublemakers.

"Come on, they're here for you, you goddamn firebender, let's go!" Jet drags him down the nearest dark alley, but the Dai Li are already in pursuit.

A whoosh by his ear, and he looks over his shoulder in shock as a sentient glove seems to fly towards his head. Half a second later, one of Jet's swords cuts through his vision, knocking away the glove, which turns out to be made of stone, controlled by the agents hunting them down.

"Don't look back, just keep running!" Jet hisses, one hand fisted in his sleeve, yanking him along in a bizarre parody of Jin's vigorous tugging earlier this evening.

Mushi has no idea where they're going, rarely having cause to wander the streets and definitely not at night. He hopes Jet is more familiar with the area. They draw near to a crossing of two broader streets, and if they can just make it there, perhaps the Dai Li will be thrown off by which direction they took.

"Fuck, they're too close." Jet surveys their surroundings quickly. "Here!" They turn a sharp corner and duck into a narrow alleyway—with no outlet.

"God damnit." With inexorable strength, he yanks Mushi from his forward momentum and pitches him into the wall to hide behind a huge rainwater barrel. He ducks for cover just as thundering footsteps draw level to their alley. Mushi tries to stifle his breathing in the hopes that they'll go unnoticed. With Jet pressed heavily against his side as they crouch there in the shadows, they might have a chance of escaping unscathed.

Sure enough, the sound of rapid pursuit going past the alley seem to indicate that the Dai Li are moving on, tracking their prey in the wrong direction.

Jet separates himself quickly from Mushi, breathing just a tad heavier than normal. "Thank God that worked."

Mushi stands too, his heart pounding out of control, feeling like it's about to burst. "Why were they pursuing us? Don't they have… I don't know, bigger fish to fry?"

Jet snorts. "Firebending within the city walls? I'd say you're probably the biggest fish they have to fry."

"But…" He stares down at his hands, unable to comprehend this entire wild evening. He's _not_ a firebender, all evidence to the contrary. "I can't." He throws one hand out in an imitation of his previous gesture, trying to bring the fire to life once more. Instead, he finds his wrist encircled by a stone hand, snapping him backwards and dragging his whole body away.

"Shit," Jet swears, grabbing on to Mushi and digging his feet in. With a flash, one sword strikes at the stone glove, hitting it on the wrist right over where a nerve would run if it were a human hand, and it releases his arm. Jet reels him in and pushes him back, stepping in front of him, swords drawn and itching to face the two agents standing at the mouth of the alley.

It doesn't look good: there's two of them and one of him, and the Dai Li are known to be unsurpassably skilled at bringing in even the most hardened, violent criminals. Before they can engage, though, a voice rings out behind them.

"Stop! Let them be."

The two agents drop their guard and part to face the newcomer, a woman dressed in the same dark green robes, with an air of icy command: their superior?

Jet remains tense, and Mushi behind him even more so, until the woman's features come into view, cold eyes and austerely braided coifs framing a pale face, and he gapes, the greatest surprise of the night (how is that even possible?) before him.

"Sister Shu?"

For it is her, a face he will never forget, the first one to greet him upon waking up in this city.

"Agent Kuan, Agent Zhai, you are dismissed. Return to your regular patrol routes."

They bow and leave silently, the discipline of the Dai Li apparent in their unequivocal obedience. Sister Shu (is that just one of her aliases? She's clearly some kind of Dai Li head operative) approaches, her steps measured and calm. Jet stands his ground, swords at the ready, unwilling to let her come any closer.

She stops short of the radius of his arm span, not wanting to challenge him, and addresses Mushi.

"Lu Ten, it is not safe for you here anymore. You must leave the city immediately."

He freezes, unable to respond, all reaction locked away behind the fact that she just called him—

"Lu Ten?" Jet lowers his swords, staring between the two of them. "You know him too? But he thinks he's called Mushi!"

"I know, because I am partly responsible for his current state."

 _What. Is. Going. On._

"Lu Ten, whether or not you believe what has happened tonight, you cannot stay here any longer as Mushi. The agents who stumbled upon you are loyal to me, but I cannot speak for all of the Dai Li. Sooner or later, someone will ask questions, and someone will seek to take the answers from you by force. The more you remember of who you truly are, the more danger you are in."

"But… who am I, if I'm not Mushi?" he asks helplessly.

"It doesn't matter right now," Jet interjects urgently. "All you have to know is that you're a firebender, and you have memories that aren't yours. If I were you, I wouldn't want to stick around to find out more." To Sister Shu, "How is he supposed to leave? Your agents are swarming the city snatching up anyone who looks halfway suspicious."

She sighs, a discouraging sound. "There is a monorail that leads to the outskirts beyond the Outer Wall, all the way to the ferry across the Yuanfen Sea. Both require the appropriate documentation and fare, but I can lighten security for the next twenty-four hours to let you slip by. You must go quickly."

"But… _Sister Shu_ ," he protests.

"Come on." Jet belts his swords and grabs Mushi's arm, practically hoisting him along. "I've felt uneasy about this place since the day I got here. There's something going on here that you don't want any part of."

He stares back at Sister Shu even as his feet follow Jet's paces away from her, craving an answer to his unsaid questions.

"Go, Lu Ten," she commands. "If we meet again, let it not be in this world."

She turns and leaves in the opposite direction. The last he sees of her are her long braids, a single jennamite circlet pinning their width atop her head, its alabaster gleam receding faintly into the darkness.

* * *

 **A/N** : Notes are here: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/35149964


	4. LU TEN: Fugue State

**A/N:** Here's Lu Ten again! This chapter picks up directly after the previous, whereas with Azula and Zuko's chapters, some time passes before the beginning of their next arcs.

* * *

 _28 January_

 **MUSHI**

Mushi twists a coil of rope around his wrist, fidgeting from sitting still for hours. They're huddled together in a narrow, low nook next to one of the boiler rooms, about five feet high and four feet wide and deep. It's grimy and uncomfortably warm, the air humid from the coal-powered fires that burn day and night. The ship's infrastructure is poorly maintained from too many consecutive trips shuttling refugees back and forth. Hinges creak with every churn of the tide, and the airtight bulkheads meant to seal the ballast tanks are leaky. He may be sitting in a puddle drained from those compartments, but to avoid it would require climbing over Jet and potentially giving away their hiding place. So he endures it, just as he endures a constant stream of questioning from his travel companion.

"You seriously don't remember anything?"

"… _no_ ," he says for what feels like the thirteenth time. "I'm still not convinced that you're not entirely delusional."

"Then explain your spontaneous tendency for arson?" Jet mimics the jabbing motion that produced flame from Mushi's unsuspecting fingers last night. "And 'Sister' Shu." He snorts. "If she's a nun, then I'm a monk. How could she know of your true identity unless it was something to do with the Dai LI? We can't have colluded. I just got to the city two weeks ago, and I've never met her before."

"I don't know that, though, do I? You haven't exactly got a passport stamped with the date of your arrival."

Neither does Mushi, for that matter. They're both stowed away illegally on the ferry that departs from Ba Sing Se daily, heading west across the Yuanfen Sea towards the central Earth Kingdom. True to her word, Sister Shu had scaled down the usual rotations of guards patrolling the gates, and between that and Jet's expertise, they were able to sneak through without showing any papers.

"Here." Jet holds out a thin blade with a plain wooden handle and sheath. "You'll need it. Ba Sing Se was full of unknown perils, but at least out here, you can see danger coming before you stab it." He frowns at Mushi's befuddlement. "Don't tell me you've forgotten how to use a knife, too."

"As far as I'm concerned, I never learned." Mushi takes the knife. "At least, not for the purposes of self-defense. For chopping meat and vegetables and such, yes."

"Forget about cooking." He reaches over and adjusts Mushi's clumsy grip. "You're not slicing radishes, you're stabbing backs and slashing throats. Hold it in your fist with the tip away from your thumb. You've got better control and greater force that way."

Mushi follows his advice, and after a five-minute crash course on all the best ways to incapacitate an attacker, he sighs and puts the knife away. "I've never killed anyone, and I don't want to."

Jet laughs, the abrupt sound overloud in the cramped crawl space they're stuck in. "Believe me, Lu Ten, killing was one thing you excelled at, if the stories about you were anything to go on."

Mushi closes his eyes briefly. There it is again, that past he can't recall. It's unnerving that he might not know his true identity. That everyone he knew from before Ba Sing Se might be completely imaginary, and that the only real person to him is this rugged stranger who turned his life upside down in one night.

"The Azure Dragon of the East, who leveled regiments and laid low the great generals of the Earth Kingdom," He recites the homages almost mockingly. "And now you can't even defend yourself from some hoodlum down a dark alley."

"If you're trying to spite me into remembering by insulting me, I don't think it's working," Mushi says tiredly.

"Whatever, Captain Lu Ten." He stands. "Let's go up and find some food, rookie. The guards won't notice as long as we keep a low profile."

"Don't call me that."

"What, rookie?" Jet tosses over his shoulder. "You're certainly not a captain anymore."

"No, my name. Lu Ten." He waits until Jet turns to face him again. "As long as I still don't remember, it's not really who I am, is it? Call me Mushi."

Jet shrugs, long, thin eyebrows arching in irritation. "Whatever… Mushi."

MMM

They get in line in an orderly fashion, and Mushi stares at the deck, pondering all that Jet has said. He seems dead set in his conviction that Mushi is actually Lu Ten, a renowned commander in the Fire Nation army and a prince to boot. In the absence of any memories of such a past, he would discount the notion as the ravings of a traumatized mind, but for those two things: his errant firebending, and Sister Shu's appearance and addressing him as Lu Ten.

But if he were a firebender, why would he want to live alone in Ba Sing Se without any memory of his past life? And how would he even have gotten into the city in such a state? It doesn't make sense.

He's roused from his thoughts by a strident voice. "Do you call this food, man? Even pigs get better pickings."

At the head of the line, a ruddy youth with high cheekbones and a blunt jaw glares at the guard handing out food. He brandishes a bowl of watery porridge with suspect… chunks floating around, narrowly avoiding spilling all its contents.

The guard remains unfazed. "That's what everyone gets, swine or not," he says, resolute. "Take it or leave it."

"We're humans, not swine!" he seethes, spittle practically flying.

"Then act like one and take your complaints to the captain of this ship, if you dare, instead of fighting for a few more mouthfuls like a pregnant sow," the guard says, the picture of a complacent, self-satisfied bureaucrat.

"How dare—!"

"Guo Bang, just take it and let's go," one of his companions urges. "It's not worth the trouble."

"Tan Jiao's right, brother," a girl with them says. "We won't get anywhere by complaining."

Still fuming, Guo Bang storms off with those two in tow, throwing a final glare over his shoulder at the placid expression of his oppressor.

 _And here I was looking forward to eating._ Mushi mourns his lunch, or rather his gut once it's digested whatever swill they're serving up.

A sudden tug on his sleeve, and to his dismay, Jet pulls him out of line to pursue the dissenter instead of getting their own meals.

"Why are we going after him?"

"To form an alliance, of course." He smirks, looking smugly confident and altogether too ready to get into some lawless scheme.

As they approach the three under the weak shade of a patchwork awning, Guo Bang looks up. "What do you want?"

Jet smiles widely, a promise of adventure in his eyes. "To help. I can't be the only one who wants to make some changes around here."

MMM

Guo Bang's traveling companions consist of his sister Guo Heng, who is paler but has the same high cheekbones; Tan Jiao, a large-eared boy with a bow and quiver slung over his rounded shoulders, his posture constantly recoiling as if afraid of being slapped; his older brother Tan Feng quite the opposite, his expression hard-faced and exquisitely cold; and Sima Jiu, a girl with a long, ornate sword belted at her waist, its decorative gold-inlaid sheath well at odds with the plainness of her clothes. Jet takes no small interest in her weapon.

"You know how to use that?" There is the hint of a challenge in his words.

"At least as well as you do, if not better." Her voice is soft but full of grit. "I learned out of necessity."

"So many do." He nods sympathetically. "It's amazing how quickly you pick things up when it's a question of life and death."

He speaks as if from personal experience. Jet mentioned that he lived with a group of other orphaned children near a village occupied by soldiers, and like as not, he would have had to develop the skills to defend himself very early on.

None of them look to be older than eighteen, and Mushi would say a prayer for their shattered youths, cut short too soon by the war, but that would not put their pieces back together. They can only march forward, steadfast in their determination to survive.

MMM

"Mushi, I think we'd better leave you as a lookout. If we do run into any guards, I don't yet trust you with that knife," Jet says, sparing no feelings.

"Just as well," he agrees without offense. "I'll only slow you down."

"What should we use as a warning signal if the guards are coming?" Guo Heng asks, thinking practically. "Ideally, something that they won't recognize as such."

Mushi thinks about it. "How about Lu Tong's 'Seven Bowls of Tea'?"

He receives mostly blank slates in response, while Tan Feng rolls his eyes in disdain. Only Sima Jiu brightens as she recalls the great sage's ode to tea. "Oh, I love that poem."

"Pah, it's base and uncultured," Tan Feng derides. "Tea is hardly a topic of refinement. Certainly its quality and taste are worldly things to be desired, but they're by no means the pinnacle of sublimity."

"Don't mind him, Mushi," Tan Jiao consoles. "My brother memorized that poem when he was twelve to win the heart of the magistrate's pretty daughter, but she wasn't impressed. He never recovered from his heartbreak and now spends all his time playing it cool, only taking pleasure in demeaning the pleasures of other people."

Tan Feng's face is steaming, and Tan Jiao smiles, pleased at getting a rise out of his brother. Self-indulgence is a better look on him than his usual nervous affect, huddling in his brother's shadow.

"Would you mind reciting it for the rest of us, so we'll know the signals?" Guo Heng asks.

"Naturally."

The first bowl moistens my lips and throat;

The second bowl breaks my loneliness;

The third bowl searches my barren entrails, but to find therein some five thousand scrolls;

The fourth bowl raises a slight perspiration, and all life's inequities pass out through my pores;

The fifth bowl purifies my flesh and bones;

The sixth bowl calls me to the immortals.

The seventh bowl could not be drunk; only the breath of the cool wind rises in my sleeves.

Where is Penglai Island? Yuchuanzi wishes to ride there on this sweet breeze.

His recitation is met with indifference from most of the audience, save for Sima Jiu and Jet, who's struggling to suppress a minute twitch of his lips, as if the poem dredges up amusing memories. What or who he is thinking about remains a mystery, though, as Guo Bang immediately launches into strategizing.

"All right, so here's what we should do. If there are guards approaching, sing the first through fourth verses. When they start to leave, you can move on to the fifth verse, but only sing the seventh verse when the coast is completely clear. Then we'll know to make our escape."

"What if they double back?" They have to think of all possibilities, after all.

"Then go back to the first verse, obviously."

"But what if they find it suspicious that I'm going back to the beginning without finishing the song first?" Mushi counters. Not to be argumentative, but these are logical scenarios. Who knows, one of the guards might be a tea and poetry enthusiast who would find the situation severely amiss if he heard "Seven Bowls of Tea" being improperly recited.

"Who cares? No one will even recognize it," Tan Feng snaps, clearly still sore about his history with this particular poem.

"Fine." Mushi runs through the plan once more. "Guards approaching, first through fourth verses. Fifth to sixth: moving away. Seventh: coast is clear. Got it."

Guo Bang claps him on the shoulder pompously. "Great. Keep it together, my man: we're depending entirely on you. All right, the Righteous Food Restoration Movement is go."

The knowing look he exchanges with Tan Feng as they head out plainly reeks of his disregard, his encouragement only a mockery of poor scholarly Mushi who doesn't know how to wield a knife.

* * *

 **JET**

The plan has been a success so far. Tan Jiao had noticed steam and smoke from a cooking fire escaping a window in one of the cabins above deck and had correctly deduced that the captain took his meals separately from the general populace. Considering the volume of the extravagant spread before them, the guards and crew probably enjoyed this privilege as well.

This particular raid has proved much easier than any he took on with the Freedom Fighters back in Gaipan, trying to run the Fire Nation out of the valley—it seems like eons ago now. They've gotten plenty of food: bags full of lotus leaves wrapped around sticky glutinous rice, a brace of mouthwatering roast pig-chickens, fragrant steamed buns, and more dumplings than he has ever seen in one sitting. This haul will be able to feed dozens of hungry passengers who deserve better for the amount of money they paid.

Lu Ten is stationed below, safely ensconced in a cranny by a stairwell that leads down below decks, where they were hiding earlier. From his vantage point, he's able to see any guards patrolling the main deck that they'll need to watch out for. At Guo Bang's signal, they congregate behind the cabin that houses the now-plundered kitchen, and Jet hears the strains of the song floating up to them.

 _Seven bowls of tea._ He thinks back to Lu Ten's soulful recitation and bites his cheek to keep from laughing again. A penchant for drama clearly runs in their family.

"My timing was perfect," Guo Bang self-extols as Lu Ten launches into the second verse. "The guards will pass shortly, and then we'll be home free."

" _Our_ timing was perfect," Jet corrects him, irked. "If I hadn't nagged us all to get out of there instead of dragging that whole hippo-cow flank with us, you'd never have left."

"Psh, whatever. We made it out in time."

"Sh, you all." Guo Heng cocks her head, listening for the signal that will give them leave to come out of hiding. They hear the fourth verse drift by, then the fifth and sixth in slow, measured succession, meaning that the guards are leaving, but at length, Lu Ten pauses, and the night air is silent.

"Why isn't he moving on to the last verse?" Guo Bang wonders. "Tan Feng, can you see anything?"

Tan Feng perches on the roof of the cabin, where there's a slightly better view of the ship's floor. He cranes his neck to try and visualize where Lu Ten is. "No; I don't hear anything either. Not sure what's happening there."

"Maybe that _was_ the seventh verse that he just sang, and now he doesn't know what to do." Guo Bang stands and heads for the stairs to the lower level.

"Wait." Sima Jiu leaps to his side in wrath, dragging him back by his collar. "That was _not_ the seventh verse. You can't go yet!"

He shakes her grip off and shrugs in blatant unconcern. "He's clearly been struck dumb by… fanciful thoughts of tea or some nonsense. Why else would he randomly stop singing? We can't rely on him to give the signal at this point." He continues in his stride, but just as he reaches the stairs, a shout sounds, followed by racing footsteps up the flight accompanied by clanking metal—a guard.

"Who's there? No passengers are allowed up here!"

 _Goddamn._ Jet's reaction is the fastest. "Let's split—two of you get up top with Tan Feng, other two come with me!"

With hardly a second's delay, Sima Jiu stabs her sword deep into the wall of the cabin at waist height, gesturing to Guo Heng. "After you."

Guo Heng takes a running start, gathering momentum in her light frame before vaulting skywards and treading lightly on the end of the sword hilt. The blade rings with tension before bouncing her through the air to land gracefully on the roof next to Tan Feng. Sima Jiu imitates her, pulling a tight backflip and extracting the blade as it catapults her to safety.

"Come on!" Guo Bang and Tan Jiao follow his lead, jumping the railing, swinging down and inwards to catch the rafters lining the ceiling above the deck. There's ample room here to hide themselves, and as long as none of the guards look straight overhead, they won't be seen.

They can, however, see Lu Ten at the juncture of the deck and the stairs leading to the engine rooms, and his less-than-ideal situation explains why he stopped singing. An angry guard has accosted him, a heavy hand fisted in his shirt pinning him against the banister. He's not struggling, seemingly frozen in place. _For fuck's sake, you've got a knife in your sleeve and your hands aren't even restrained._

"Where are your associates hiding? We know you were keeping watching for them."

Lu Ten feigns a puzzled expression. "No idea what you're talking about."

"Don't lie. We'll search the entire ship, every crevice and nook. They won't escape with their lives… unless you give us a hand," the guard says menacingly.

He hesitates, his pause laden with suspense in the silence, and Guo Bang's nerves fray amid the tension.

"Shoot him, Tan Jiao." His command is resolute, glacial, without a shred of compassion.

"What?!" Jet stares in shock at their callous leader, perched on the next rafter. "You can't kill him."

"He'll give us away otherwise. We can hide the food down below and distribute it later tonight when the patrols are sparser, but we can't if he rats us out. Shoot Mushi."

Tan Jiao reaches a trembling hand over his shoulder for his bow, but then shakes his head frantically. "I can't."

"Why not? It's a matter of life and death for us if we're caught."

"It's already life and death for Mushi. I can't just—" Tan Jiao gestures wordlessly toward the pair below, where the scene seems to be escalating. Jet watches in horror as the guard draws his fist back, and without thinking, he lurches forward and would be halfway to the rescue if not for the others' quick reaction. Guo Bang grabs his arm and holds him back, his grip vicelike.

"Don't, you'll give us away!"

" _You_ gave us away, and now _he's_ paying the price!" Jet winces at the sound of bone hitting flesh and a sickly thud as he crumples to the floor, winded by a punch to the gut. The guard doesn't stop there, one foot kicking out at his face, and Jet nearly breaks free as blood starts to stream from Lu Ten's nose.

"Leave him." Another guard appears at the top of the steps, a godsend. "Don't waste your time with this scum. It'll be faster for us to just search the ship and track down those thieves."

As soon as they're gone, he turns to his erstwhile comrades. "A fine lot of righteous food restorers you are," he sneers, "not even stirring to help a friend in need. You're pathetic."

Guo Bang, for once, has nothing to say. Tan Jiao seems torn, but he, too, mutely avoids Jet's glare. Without further deliberation, they slip away to reunite with the others on the top level, stolen food in hand, leaving Jet to tend to Lu Ten. He hastens over to where his friend lies curled on the ground, one hand trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose.

"That bastard, kicking a man when he's down…" With some effort, he tears off a scrap of fabric from his sleeve. "Here, pinch your nose hard, sit up, and lean forward. We don't want you choking on your own blood."

With one hand behind his back, Jet helps Lu Ten sit up painfully against the wall. He hisses as the movement jostles his stomach where the guard punched him hard.

"If you do start vomiting up blood, it'll be hard to tell whether it's blood from your nose that you swallowed or internal bleeding from your stomach," he frets. "Obviously, the latter is much more concerning."

"I wouldn't worry if it's internal bleeding. That's where the blood is supposed to be," Lu Ten jokes weakly.

"Are you seriously making jokes after you've been beaten within an inch of your life?" he asks, incredulous. There's a huge bruise blooming over his left eye that will blacken beautifully. Part of his lip is puffy and swollen, not to mention his still-gushing nose, and yet he's possibly spryer and more chipper than before. It doesn't compute.

"Don't exaggerate. I've had worse than this before when I first arrived in Ba Sing Se. I was stuck in bed for a week."

Jet eyes him skeptically. Lu Ten doesn't seem like the type to feign toughness for machismo's sake, so he shrugs and lets it drop. "Let's get out of here before the guards come back for you."

* * *

 **MUSHI**

They end up settling back in their dark corner under the deck. Mushi winces as he peels the blood-encrusted scrap of cloth off his nose, no longer actively bleeding.

"Here, make yourself presentable." He accepts another bit of cloth, dampened with clean water, and gingerly wipes the blood off his face. "God, you look awful. Those fuckers… I would've kicked that guard six ways to hell if Guo Bang and Tan Jiao hadn't held me back. You know they wanted to shoot you to keep you from betraying them? If I see them again, they _will_ run screaming for their lives," Jet vows darkly.

He picks up a bowl of food and chopsticks, clearly the only spoils he'd managed to hold onto, and offers it to Mushi. "Are you going to be able to keep this down, or should I save it for later?"

"I'll try a little." He scoops up a bit of rice into his mouth, chewing slowly. "Those fuckers, huh? I mean… it's not their fault. If you'd revealed yourselves, more guards would have come, and it would only have ended in all of us getting locked in chains. It was a small price to pay for them to get away with the food, which was the whole point of Guo Bang's Righteous Food Restoration Movement."

Jet blows out a petulant breath at that fanciful name, unswayed. "What's funny… well, not _funny,_ but you know… _ironic_ , is that I used to be like him. Once, I wouldn't have hesitated either to sacrifice innocent lives for what I thought was a just cause." He sinks a heavy fist down on his thigh, clenched tight, hugely unamused at how blasé Mushi is about his own hypothetical death. "That's not what _you_ would have done."

 _Me?_ Mushi sorts through a few pieces of roast duck and mustard greens in the bowl as he puzzles over that statement. _Ah, he means the other me. Lu Ten._

Methodically, he chews his way through the less choice pieces where the meat is thin and tough. _Old habits die hard_. It's been years. In the last days before their town's demise, food was scarce, all trade routes having been cut off, and he often shared food with Lee, setting aside the best parts for the growing boy. It's a firstborn's duty, after all, to watch over his younger siblings. He gnaws tirelessly through some tough mustard stems. Lee always preferred the tender, sweet greens over the tasteless stems, a child's palate being so picky, and so Mushi leaves them.

"If what you say is true, we only met once, and that was when you were running from the men who burned down your home. I can't imagine you were in much of a state to notice anything particular about me."

"No, you're wrong." Jet's voice is hard with meaning and conviction. "Everything you did stood out to me that day, even if I didn't realize it in the moment.

"You knelt down to my level instead of towering over a tiny, terrified child.

"You asked me my name. You told me you wouldn't hurt me, and not only did you not hurt me, you physically stepped in front of me when those desecrators caught up and tried to take me away.

"What's more, your men stepped in front of you when their leader tried to approach you with murder on his mind. They wouldn't risk your life for anything, and that told me that you wouldn't risk _their_ lives for nothing.

"You fought to protect me, a kid from an enemy nation that you had just met, for no other reason than because I had no one else."

He enumerates each and every detail like an elegy commemorating a great hero, now passed, somber and earnest, leaving no room for insincerity.

"It makes me wonder, what if I'd stayed instead of running for my life? I don't know what you could have done with me—kept me around to shine your armor?" He laughs harshly, the humor stuck in his throat, only the thrill of the gallows remaining. "But who knows, I might have ended up a better man than I am now, if I'd had you as a role model."

It's so strange hearing about the other him whom Jet seems to admire and revile simultaneously, both for what he did and what he was. Mushi frowns through a mouthful of rice. "How could you possibly have had a decent childhood watching a battalion of Fire Nation soldiers cut down scores of your countrymen?"

"I suppose." He leans his head back against the wall behind them and sighs.

"Here." Mushi hands the bowl back, having finished about one-third of its contents. "You haven't eaten either. Finish it before it gets cold."

Jet looks like he wants to protest, then thinks better of it. "Thanks." He starts to dig in.

"At least use the other end of the chopsticks, you heathen." Even as the words leave his mouth, the moment feels impossibly anachronistic, as if he's back home with Lee, admonishing his little brother for scarfing his food down like an eager catfish.

Jet blinks slowly, his earlier heart-baring revelations robbing him of his senses. "…right." He flips the chopsticks around to the unused end. It's blessedly quiet for a long stretch of time as he eats and Mushi ignores the tumultuous thoughts swirling through his head.

MMM

At some point, Mushi drifts off and wakes with a shock as the whole ship quakes on the swell of the waves.

"What's happening?"

Jet is already standing, much more alert. "I don't know. There was a crash that shook the walls, like we collided with another vessel. Let's go up and see."

Mushi hesitates. "Your face is much better than yesterday, don't worry. Besides, no one's going to be looking at you if they're looking at whatever hit the ship."

As they climb, the sound of frightened shouts reaches them, waves crashing, masts creaking, all around a chaotic and confusing affair.

The sea rolls and foams, and Mushi can't fathom what is causing its turmoil until, with a majestic screech, a huge creature breaches the surface: a terrifying sea serpent with a mouth full of razor sharp teeth and wide fins spanning its head on a neck that must be at least fifty feet long.

"Full steam ahead!" At the helm of the ship, the captain bellows for the crew to leap into action. "We have to outrun it, or it'll smash us to pieces!"

"We might not be fast enough," Jet murmurs, hands dropping to his swords. "Its whole body is as long as this ship; it's no difficulty at all for it to keep up."

"What are you thinking?"

Before he can answer, the serpent catches up, rearing out of the water over twenty feet high before it comes crashing down on the stern. Passengers pelt up the deck towards them to escape from the flying debris as it obliterates everything in its path.

"It's going to destroy the ship! We have to do something." He gazes up at the tiered cabins amidships, levels stacked high on top of each other, with a calculating look in his eye.

"Mushi, get down and give me a boost." Jet draws his swords and backs up a few paces, assuming a sprinter's starting stance low to the ground.

"What? Why?" He does it anyways, even as the serpent starts to circle the ship again and the cries of the doomed passengers grow louder, overwhelming in his ears.

"Incoming!" That's all the warning Mushi gets before Jet comes running at him, and he rears up from one knee just as Jet plants a foot on the small of his back. Not as heavy as expected, he swings up and up until he catches the railing of the tier just above the deck with his hook swords, neatly propelling himself over and up onto the next level—and not a moment too soon. In the blink of an eye, the serpent comes hurtling out of nowhere. Jet climbs onto the railing and leaps into thin air just as the beast collides violently with the tower, and he lands right on the base of its long neck.

"Jet!" Mushi cries frantically. Spirits, he can't possibly think he'll actually kill the serpent and survive to tell the tale?

"Jet!" another voice calls. Guo Bang and the rest of their gang rush up to him. "Jet!" He halts when he sees Mushi, but the urgency of the situation spurs him on. "What is he doing?!"

"He's lost his mind. Look!" Sima Jiu gasps.

Jet climbs the serpent's neck, hanging on to its wickedly sharp spines as it twists and tries to throw him off, howling like a demon summoned from the depths of the sea. Despite its struggles, he reaches its head and hurdles over the jagged edges of its fins, landing between the eyes, crawling close to its skull on his hands and knees for stability. For a moment, he loses his grip and slips off of the serpent's head, nearly plummeting to a watery death before he catches hold of a long, tentacle-like whisker on the side of its mouth.

" _Oh gods, save him."_ Sima Jiu and the others seem about ready to faint, Tan Feng clutching his brother's arm without regard for propriety for once, and Mushi feels the same, sick to his stomach (which was recovering nicely before now, thank you very much).

He pulls himself up to the creature's head again, arms supporting his entire weight, and his slow but steady progress defies its efforts to dislodge him. He crawls closer to its huge eyes, and with all the might he can summon, slashes one sword across the bulging yellow globe.

Blood gushes from the serpent's eye, and if they thought its shrieks were earsplitting before, they were nothing compared to now. Its tortured keening forces Mushi to cover his ears, though his eyes stay on Jet. He's still hanging on by a tiny margin, and he won't give up until the beast is dead. Every inch he covers across the monster's head is like a mile, but gradually, agonizingly so, he draws level with its other eye, rising to stand upright and stare straight at it.

 _That's right: afford your enemy the honor of looking him in the eye as you kill him,_ Mushi thinks, quite out of nowhere. He doesn't recall ever being in a situation violent enough to necessitate such bloodthirsty wisdom.

Jet draws his arm back, sword glinting in the sunlight like an avenging torch, and plunges it elbow-deep into the serpent's eye. A deafening bellow goes up, the serpent's neck arching high up in a final spasm until at last it surrenders to its fate, collapsing into the water and sending up a massive wave in its last wake.

MMM

Jet's body is a perfect curve as it arcs through the air, hanging suspended for what seems like an eternity before it disappears beneath the waves. A cheer goes up among the passengers, cries of relief and joy at the vanquishing of the demonic creature. Mushi hears none of it as he stares at the spot where Jet went under. The ship has been making headway all the while, and they're far away now, far enough that Mushi cannot see him in the water, if he is wounded, if he is struggling to reach the surface.

"Don't lose speed! Maintain full steam!" the captain commands, unheeding of the passenger he is abandoning. The crew echo him, and Mushi watches in disbelief as they sail farther away from where their savior is drowning in open water.

"You can't leave him! We have to go back."

The captain fixes him with a steely gaze. "It's too dangerous. The monster could still be alive."

"So you're just going to let him die?"

"The life of one man is not worth risking the lives of so many." The captain spreads his arms wide in indication of the entire ship around them, convinced of his logic.

Logic it may be, but Mushi is not about to leave his friend behind. He strides purposefully up to the captain, and before the man knows what is happening, his wrists are pinned tight behind his back, and there is a knife at his throat, held by Mushi's steady hand, just as Jet taught him yesterday.

"Help!" he yelps, wiggling ineffectually in an iron grip. "Help me!"

The guards reach for their weapons, and maybe this wasn't such a great idea. He's outnumbered ten to one, but there's no way he's leaving Jet to die.

Before the conflict potentiates itself, a flurry of motion, and out of nowhere, Guo Bang and Tan Jiao are on the scene, fists flying, Tan Feng beside them gyrating like a top, delivering opportune kicks and open-palmed slaps with the same cold fury that always perfuses him. From the tier above, Sima Jiu plummets down, taking out one guard with her aerial assault and viciously grinding her heel into his neck. Even Guo Heng has a knife in her pale hand that she lets fly, neatly pinning another guard to the railing by the sleeve. In a matter of seconds, they are all disarmed or unconscious on the floor.

"Is the life of one man worth risking now?" Mushi addresses the crew and passengers, who gape, frozen in shock. The captain continues to tremble in his hold.

"Please, I don't want to die," he whimpers pathetically.

"Then you know what you need to do."

The captain grits his teeth, his pride clearly taking a blow, but his self-preservation wins. "Turn this ship around. Passenger overboard!"

Mushi silently thanks Jet's foresight even as the crew begin to reverse the ship's course and head back. He relaxes, letting his hand fall to his side, the knife still gripped tightly in his fist.

MMM

Jet's eyes are half-closed as they deposit him on deck, and Mushi is at his side in an instant. "Jet. Jet!" He drags him to a sitting position, supporting his front while patting his back frantically even as his head lolls on his limp neck, too tired to stay upright. A couple weak coughs, and what seems like half the lake comes hacking out of his throat.

Presently, Jet cracks an eye open. "You came back for me, "he rasps, lungs still hoarse from aspirating seawater. "I'm surprised."

"Don't be ridiculous; of course I had to come back for you." Mushi knocks him gently on the shoulder, pretending to be offended at his lack of faith.

"You're more like him than I thought," Jet says softly.

Mushi lets his hand rest where it lies on Jet's shoulder, clenching lightly, its gentle rise and fall reassuring him that this sodden young hero is alive and well. He's still not Lu Ten. Who knows if he will ever again be that noble savior of Jet's recollection, or if he even was to begin with. But if it makes him happy, and it's not so fundamentally different from who Mushi is, then… perhaps he can be that person.

"Old habits die hard," he says lightly, spirits leaping at the smile gracing Jet's mouth.

MMM

He looks up as a shadow crosses between him and the evening lanterns. Tomorrow morning, they will reach the far shore.

"Guo Bang," he greets. "What brings you here?"

Their erstwhile leader sits awkwardly, glancing at the sleeping figure next to Mushi. "Um…" He rests his hands on his knees, locking and unlocking his fingers, clearly not ready for the speech he is attempting to launch into.

"Let me guess: you want to apologize for yesterday's appalling behavior, which would have seen me dead for the sake of a few meals?" Mushi does not soften his words, because the truth is the only thing that can pierce all falsehoods.

"Well, yes."

"Where are you from, Guo Bang?" Mushi asks, quite off-topic. "And where do you plan to go now?"

"I'm from Yu Dao." _The Jade Island, city of hope._ "Tan Feng and Tan Jiao are cousins on my mother's side. We're going back there to restore the city to the Earth Kingdom. The Fire Nation's been squatting there for too long, taking what rightfully belongs to us and forcing us to live like second-class citizens. But not anymore," he vows with passion. "Once Yu Dao is back under Earth Kingdom control, my dream is to drive out the invaders and bring peace to all the colonies."

"And after that?" he prods pleasantly. "Surely you won't stop at just the colonies?"

"Of course not." With an active listener, Guo Bang is scintillating if a little overly idealistic. "The dynasty itself isn't without blame. Earth King Kuei's reign is a mockery of the title of Son of Heaven. He does nothing for his people but hide behind the walls of Ba Sing Se. If anyone's going to bring justice to the Kingdom, it's definitely not him."

"And yet you are certain that it will be you." Mushi leans back casually, resting his weight on his hands. The position sends a twinge of pain running through his right shoulder, but he ignores it. One finger brushes the fluffy fringe of Jet's hair, pillowed on a sack of beans. A light sea breeze lifts a few strands of hair, and in his sleep, Jet curls subconsciously away from the wind, huddling closer to Mushi's side.

The seventh bowl could not be drunk; only the breath of the cool wind rises in my sleeves.

Where is Penglai Island? Yuchuanzi wishes to ride there on this sweet breeze.

Mushi recalls the seventh verse that he didn't have a chance to get to in yesterday's operation. "Have you ever heard of Chin the Conqueror?"

"Who hasn't? He rose from humble origins and started small, but eventually he became the first Earth King. He reigned for forty years, built the walls of Ba Sing Se, and united fifty provinces," Guo Bang recites.

"And how many innocent people were killed in his efforts to unite the empire?"

Guo Bang looks at him, perhaps a bit frustrated by his rhetoric. "Of course there were a lot, but… that's just what happens, when you have a goal so great: it takes a proportional sacrifice."

"I see." It occurs to him to do a little math here. "So if you have a smaller goal, say, feeding the passengers on this ship, it takes a smaller sacrifice: just one life. Not a lot to ask."

"I said I'm sorry about that."

 _Did you?_ He smiles viciously at Guo Bang's discomfort.

"Before Chin the Conqueror died, he was obsessed with finding the secret to everlasting life. He sent many people to search for the mythical Mount Penglai, home of the immortals, said to be located on an island in the Eastern Sea. He died in disappointment.

"I don't know about eternal life, but I do know the secret to a good life. You may not need to conquer a realm far and wide to find it. The secret lies with the people you most love, who are right by your side, supporting and loving you in return."

He knows that he has not gotten through to Guo Bang, that the man walking away from him is the sprout of a second First Emperor, but… he tried.

"You're one to talk. You were ready to slit the captain's throat to save me," Jet murmurs, not quite asleep.

"I was bluffing, but he didn't need to know that," Mushi says lightly. "All in a day's work."

* * *

 **JET**

"What's that?" Jet asks as Lu Ten approaches carrying a wiggly grey ball of fur.

"It's you. Behold the resemblance."

Jet and the kitten size each other up, both convinced of their own superiority.

"See? You're both bedraggled, stray animals with an indomitable will to survive. Sima Jiu and Guo Heng found it half-drowned in the bilge water on the lowest level. They searched all over for the mother but didn't find her, so I volunteered to take it."

"You volunteered…? Did it occur to you that we barely have the means to feed ourselves, let alone a cat?"

Lu Ten puts on his most betrayed expression, eyes wide and lips pursed comically. "Maybe we can train it to catch food or do tricks for money? No matter what, we can't leave it to die. It's barely weaned, judging by the size, and it doesn't know how to hunt or anything." He waves one of its forepaws at Jet beseechingly; the kitten itself seems quite above such displays and stares up at him in stern disapproval. "Think about it this way: what would the real Lu Ten do?"

Jet sighs, defeated. "He would adopt every useless stray he came across, regardless of its origins. _Fine,"_ he concedes, reaching over to poke the kitten between its beady brown eyes. Its fur is a sable gray with white socks, a white tail, ears, and patches around its mouth and eyes. "You're taking care of it, though."

"Of course." Lu Ten is already engaged in petting it dry with his sleeve, murmuring softly to the cat as it nuzzles his hand, keen for head pats (or possibly tasty fingers? Jet is not acquainted with feline habits).

They disembark from the ship as it docks at the western shore, a crowd of people already gathered there to take the ferry back to the city. Something occurs to him as they exit and the sea of people starts to thin.

"What should we name it?"

Lu Ten thinks. " _Miao._ "

"…" Seriously? "You are the worst at coming up with names. Who names a cat based on the sound it makes?"

"It's not," he says, miffed that Jet thinks so little of his christening. "It's _miao_ as in, a great expanse of water as far as the eye can see. You know, the one we just got out of?" He points over one shoulder with his thumb, which jostles the kitten (now _Miao,_ of all things) sitting there. It whines and snuggles closer to his neck. "I just thought it would be appropriate and a fitting symbol of what we've experienced together."

Trust Lu Ten to come up with a heavy-handed, meaning-laden name for a pet instead of something appropriately banal like… Pineapple Cake, or… Red Bean Bun, or… Breadfruit… okay, Jet isn't that good with names, either. Cats have never been his forte. "Whatever… _Miao,"_ he pronounces skeptically. It's kind of cute, though he'd never admit it.

And so they set off for the wide world: an ex-Freedom Fighter, an amnesiac firebender, and an animal familiar making a strange trio, but one that is no less steadfast for it.

* * *

 **A/N:** Miao's name is the result of sifting through my dictionary app to find a word that sounds like 'meow' for a cat. The word 淼 (miǎo; a vast expanse of water, flood), consists of the radical 水 (shǔi; water), so three waters make a flood.

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think :)

Notes about the OCs names, the poem, the cat, and historical figures are located here: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/36119085


	5. AZULA: Peonies and Sparrowkeets

**A/N:** Hi all, sorry for the delay! A hurricane was coming towards us, so I was pretty stressed, but at the last minute it decided to turn away, and now we're in the clear. But school already got canceled for two days, and they can't retract the order, so here I am enjoying a four-day weekend :)

I swear this IS actually an Avatar _Zuko_ AU; I'm just having some trouble with Zuko's part (and all the parts, actually), so here's Azula for now. I promise next chapter will be Zuko :)

* * *

 _25 January_

 **AZULA**

"Well, that's a write-off," Haru declares as they trudge up the shore, shoes and hems thoroughly waterlogged. Behind them lies the depleted motorboat, having sputtered its last twenty yards from land, forcing them to abandon ship. "Are you sure it didn't run out of gas?"

"The fuel gauge is fine; the rest of the circuitry was damaged," Azula says. "There's no point in trying to fix it. It's too obviously Fire Nation, and there probably aren't any mechanics in this area who would know where to start."

They're in the southwestern Earth Kingdom, an area that's historically never been of much interest to the Fire Nation. It's far to the south, cut off from everything else, and beyond it lies the Si Wong Desert, which no one has been able to conquer, not even Fire Lord Ozai.

They trek through miles and miles of fallow plains, no wildflowers yet in sight. The straps of Azula's pack cut into her shoulders, and presently it starts to rain—slowly, at first, then the heavens open up, pounding her into the mud, well and truly exiled in the Earth Kingdom.

"Chin Village shouldn't be much further," Haru reports, shielding the map from the downpour with his sleeve. "See? There's a house up ahead on the hill. We can ask to stay until the rain passes."

She purses her lips and squints ahead through raindrops pelting her eyelashes. "Let's see first if whoever lives there is naïve enough to let two strangers into their house."

"You call it naivete; I call it hospitality," he distinguishes as they approach. He knocks on the door, perhaps not loud enough to be heard over the rumbling rainfall. A little harder and it swings open, but there is no one behind it.

"Uh, Azula… we should probably go. It might be haunted."

"Don't be superstitious." She steps over the threshold. "If there were such things as ghosts, my grandfather would be the first to haunt me for desecrating his remains."

The house is a simple, two-room affair without much in the way of furnishing or décor. A table, two chairs, an unlit hearth, a few cabinets and drawers, a poor life sustained here; no wonder it stands abandoned. Just then, a spate of coughing sounds from the other room, separated only by a curtained doorway. Azula freezes and turns to look at Haru, equally alarmed.

"Who's there?" a frail voice calls. "Aang?"

Haru relaxes a bit; after all, a ghost wouldn't ask "Who's there?" Besides, the voice sounds like that of an old, sick woman who couldn't do any harm. Azula remains wary, though: this could be a trap. She edges toward the doorway, parting the curtains gingerly, and finally throws them wide.

The room before them is empty save for a low table and bed. In it, a woman sits up weakly, her face not as lined as her quavering voice would suggest. Her plain white nightrobe swaddles shoulders thin and hunched from coughing, and long, greying hair frames her face in lank, unwashed strands. But the most telling thing about her are the blue arrows tattooed down her forehead and hands knotted and wrinkled as raspberry brambles.

 _Another one that Zhao missed._

"You're an airbender," Haru says, sounding awed.

"Yes," the woman says simply. "And who might you young travelers be?"

"I'm Haru, and this is Azula. We're from Meikuang. We don't know anyone in the area, and it was raining, so we kind of barged in—please forgive us." He clasps his hands together in a contrite bow and side-eyes Azula, hinting at her to do the same.

Ugh, niceties. She complies, fumbling her hands into the right position, not the Fire Nation bow as she is used to, and inclines her torso the minimum angle she can to afford respect. "Our apologies for trespassing," she says stiffly.

The woman smiles, faint but sincere. "No harm done, children. No one should be out in this kind of weather," she coughs, a deep hacking sound that rattles her entire frame. "What are you doing in these parts?"

"We're… looking for the Avatar," Haru says. Hopefully she'll let them leave it at that. Only lies have details, after all. "We want to help defeat the Fire Lord." He's only lying by omission. They're less likely to be kicked out of the house if their host doesn't know that Azula is Fire Lord spawn. Honestly, she doesn't look up to kicking them out of anywhere, as indisposed as she is. As she shifts to regard them more closely, the blanket slips down to her waist, her figure emaciated, veins standing out against her bony wrists, skin a dull translucent quality—she must have been sick for a very long time.

"A noble aspiration." She clears her throat. "You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, rain or no rain. I, however, may not be able to stay so long."

Haru looks around. "Isn't there anyone—?"

Azula makes an impatient noise and cuts him off. "You're one of only two living airbenders known to date. Do you know anything about the other one who's currently with the Avatar?"

Despite her bullheadedness, the woman takes no offence and nods gravely. "You must be referring to my son, Aang."

* * *

 **HARU**

Aang… the name sounds familiar, and he realizes in what context he's seen it.

"You're Jinora?"

It is her turn to look taken aback.

"I… I…" he stammers. "We went to the Southern Air Temple to search for the Avatar, and I found this."

He brings out the letter taken from Avatar Tenzin, one that he never thought he'd deliver to its intended recipient. Jinora reaches out with shaking fingers to take it. She reads it silently, lips moving with the words, shaping them like relearning the body of one beloved, long forgotten.

 _To my dearest wife and son,_

 _Jinora: I know that you will teach Aang to remember the cicada, like the masters of old. Aang: heed well your mother's teachings. Then, and only then, can you release your earthly tether._

 _Wind speed you,_

 _Tenzin_

* * *

 **AZULA**

"We should leave tomorrow," Azula decides that night, as Haru stirs a pot on the fire. In the other room, Jinora's coughs are silent, soothed by sleep. It's still raining heavily outside. "Every day we delay is another day we could miss Zuko."

"We can't leave Jinora here alone, though. She said some girls from the village come by every week or so to visit her, but she might not have that long." Haru spoons out a small bowl and makes a face as he tastes it: medicine for someone who can no longer benefit from it.

"She's been alone all this time. What difference will it make if we stay or leave?" By the sound of it, Jinora is well-acquainted with and not at all frightened at the prospect of her imminent passing—a relief, considering the edge of the panicked precipice Haru seems to be on.

He sets the bowl down, a little more heavily than its slight weight warrants, and clenches one fist next to it, glaring across the table at her. "It makes all the difference in the world. If you were to die, wouldn't you want to be surrounded by people who love and cherish you? It's the least we can do for her."

"I _have_ nearly died, remember?" she says acidly. "For the record, I would have died alone too if I'd made a single miscalculation with the dosage. But I don't see how it matters: either way, you still take that final journey alone."

"Sometimes I forget that I'm traveling with a stone golem brought to life," Haru says, cold as the heart he accuses Azula of having. " _Imagine,_ then, that you were anyone but yourself. Trust me on this: you would want someone to care enough to stay with you."

He returns to the fire, poking around above the mantlepiece looking for something to add to the pot. Locating a jar, he spoons a generous helping of sugar, stirring religiously until it's all dissolved.

"Will caring about her help save her?"

" _Nope_." In a flippant afterthought, he tugs his headband off and winds its length around a high ponytail to keep his hair off his neck, away from the heat of the fire. Azula seethes at the back of his head, the ribbon looping tightly around and around until he ties it off with calm, practiced motions.

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

Outside, the rain swells, its ceaseless patter goading her thoughts into simmering heat, her temper shortened by Haru's obstinacy _._ People die all the time; _that's what people do_. Cousin Lu Ten died, probably a sword in the gut, though she'd never been quite brash enough to ask Uncle Iroh. Grandfather Azulon died, probably abetted by her father. Haru almost died, and it's incredulous how blasé he was about his own demise compared with how rigid and unmoving he is about the impending death of an old lady he just met.

"Do you realize how serious our mission is? We have to find Zuko so that we can kill my father before he destroys the Earth Kingdom and everything you hold dear." If she must spell it out for him, she will. "You're letting sentiment get in your way to tend to a woman who's perfectly at ease with her own mortality anyways. We don't have room for distractions or consolations. If you're trying to atone for the guilt you feel about leaving _your_ mother all alone, now is not the time."

A peal of thunder punctuates her rant, the sky itself confirming the urgency of their mission, their duty which lies beyond the care of one forsaken woman. Azula tailors her words to pierce him in the most sensitive recesses of his heart, but Haru barely casts a glance over his shoulder at her tirade, his silhouette backlit by the fire. The agitation swells in her chest like turbulent air bent on stirring her up, out of control.

 _"Don't ignore me."_

The words escape her in a curse laid down for generations to come. Her frustration channels itself out, the fire rising high and chillingly blue in response. Haru scrambles back from the pot, now steaming vigorously and bubbling over onto the heightened, azure flames.

"Control yourself!" he snaps, finally deigning to face her properly.

Outside, lightning flashes, and under its cold, white light, he looks so tired, green eyes lidded low, as if the combined stressors of tending to Jinora and wrangling Azula and being so close to home are eroding the staid bedrock of his strength. Thunder shakes the walls like cannon fire, fading until the rain on the roof is a mere drizzle, its unbroken stream defusing her.

They won't be going anywhere soon, anyways. At this rate, the roads will be drowned in mud, and she doesn't fancy tramping through that for days on end.

"Fine. We'll indulge your inner saint and stay for a while." She sighs. "Maybe if you keep this up, you'll ascend to the plane of enlightenment. Then Aang and Zuko will come pay their respects to Your Holiness, and we won't even have to go to the ends of the earth to find them."

"That _would_ be convenient," he says tightly, once again not looking at her. She prays they don't have long to wait.

* * *

 _26 January_

 **HARU**

The next morning, Jinora asks for pen and paper.

"If you seek the Avatar, you should turn your footsteps toward the Eastern Air Temple," she instructs them. On the table beside her bed rests an untouched bowl of medicinal tea. "I was born and raised there, before I met Tenzin, and it may have occurred to Aang to seek refuge under its auspices. It is a beautiful place, raw and uncarved, the stone of the temple melting into the bones of the mountains with hardly a line to divide them."

With careful strokes, the lines and curves of a distant paradise begin to take shape under her brush. A series of three peaks rises from a floor of clouds; as opposed to the sheer spines of the Southern Air Temple, the architecture is subdued, nestled like a natural phenomenon into the sides of the mountains, shoulder-to-shoulder with the sky but not piercing it. Evergreens grow at precarious angles from cracks that one would not imagine could support life. Under their shade rise gentle staircases, their steps shallow and broad. Down, down between the mountains they sink, coming to rest in secluded valleys where humble streams flow through pools of clear water. It is here that Jinora begins to indicate their path.

"You will approach from the northwest, most likely, across a small stretch of the Eastern Sea. This hidden entrance to the valley is your best choice if you wish to arrive unfollowed. From there, your path winds east…"

Haru watches her retrace the steps of her childhood home as if she had walked there yesterday. Perhaps, in dreams. He is vaguely aware of Azula's oppressive attention from the other side of the bed, glance narrowed in circumspect observation, not missing a single detail.

* * *

 **JINORA**

She asks him about the Southern Air Temple, how it looks now, and he describes it as best he can, trying to spare her feelings and skip over the pillage and chaos wrought by Avatar Tenzin's last stand, instead imagining the place as it must have been in its former glory.

Jinora closes her eyes as he speaks, painting familiar sights in her mind, and his voice carries on, a lovely backdrop. It's less resonant and brilliant than Aang's, more like his father's: supple and subdued, its timbre the flicker of gentle flame than the resounding echoes through a canyon. Homely, tender, and she feels tears gather under her eyelids unbidden, extravasating themselves like leaks in a dam.

He stops. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to grieve you about Avatar Tenzin…"

Was he talking about Tenzin? She doesn't recall. She turns her head to the side to see Haru sitting next to her bed, looking quite chastised. Azula seems to have lost interest in the conversation and wandered out.

"It's alright, child. I have long since ceased to feel the pain of his loss."

It is a weak lie, and he probably knows it. Pondering him now, eyes lowered against the afternoon sunlight, she thinks he has felt something similar in his short life. He looks at her like he's seeing someone else, someone he lost too soon and could do nothing to save.

"Your friend… she doesn't want to stay."

"No." He shakes his head. "She doesn't see the point."

"Ah."

"She's… she's not heartless. She sees the canyon, not the stones. The life of one person, even her own, hardly matters compared with the lives of many that could be saved when we achieve our goal."

"Hm." An admirable attitude, and one that Jinora can only hope Aang will be able to grasp, for the good of the Avatar and the world. "Do you know what Tenzin meant when he said to remember the cicada?"

Haru shakes his head.

"The masters of old greatly celebrated the cicada, for its resonant voice that can be heard from miles away, and its cycle of rebirth emulating immortality." She pauses, recalling "Ode to the Cicada" as she had last heard Tenzin reciting it one balmy summer night, well before their world went up in flames.

 _To eschew fame and wealth and be without desire_

 _And take pleasure in singing alone_

 _With a clear bright voice that grows ever stronger_

 _Like the will of an honorable man._

"The cicada's only desire is to find its mate, and to do that, it must sing without restraint, with all the energy it can muster for its short time above ground. Its life is simple and undemanding, without the malice of competition, without the rancor of dissatisfaction."

"But what does that have to do with Azula?" Haru asks. He's a sharp one, not failing to notice that his companion hardly seems to fit this idealized archetype.

"I doubt Azula shares the same goal in life as the cicada, unless you can tell me differently?" she inquires with a hint of mischief, thinking to catch him unawares. Nothing in their behavior so far has suggested it, but it's not impossible.

She notes the widening of his eyes and the light blush leaping to his face as he registers her meaning. "No-no, we're not…" he hastens to clarify, and she smiles, his stammering so reminiscent of a young Avatar trying to woo her with highbrow poetry many a year ago. "I don't think that's on her mind at all. She wants only to defeat the Fire Lord… as do I."

Jinora raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Then you must ensure that your songs are in harmony."

He says nothing to that, twisting his hands together uncomfortably, and she decides to let it go. They will come to terms in their own time.

"It's been almost seventeen years, long enough for a brood of cicadas to mature. My song is coming to an end, but yours has yet to begin."

* * *

 **AZULA**

 _Cheep-cheep, queeeeeep!_

She frowns as she traces the squeaky, high chirping overhead to a nest bundled above the door. From its depths emerges a trio of tiny birds—they must have sought refuge inside from the storm last night. The largest one is emerald-green with a yellow head, another is sky-blue, and the last one grey flecked with periwinkle. One by one, they flutter out and land before her in a neat line on the table, looking up at her expectantly.

Domesticated, then, with no fear of humans whatsoever. She thinks of the turtleducks back home: the first creatures ever to fear her younger self, followed by Zuko, Mai, Ty Lee, the servants, even her mother.

She gets up and rummages around the scant kitchen, turning up some rice, which the birds attend to with enthusiasm. "It must be nice to know that you'll always get what you need and to never be afraid of going without."

They pay her no mind, busy dotting the table with pointed beaks, bouncing around joyfully as they pursue each individual grain.

"I used to be like you. The perfect princess, I always got exactly what I wanted with hardly any effort, unlike Zuko, who gave his all, all the time, and did our father care?"

The birds reply intelligently with a few delighted cheeps as she flicks some more rice towards them.

"And now I'm probably doing the same. Dragging myself down the path of most resistance, not even knowing if Zuko will be there in the end. This could all be for nothing."

"Even if I do find him, he won't exactly be welcoming. What do I have to offer him except unpleasant memories and some scarce knowledge of our father's plans for the Earth Kingdom? They really only amount to 'destroy everything' anyways."

She scoops up some more rice, wondering if the birds will eat out of her hand. The green one does, hopping onto her palm without hesitation and pecking away.

"You should be more afraid," she informs it, closing her fingers slightly around it.

"Of what?"

Haru returns to the sight of her surrounded by birds and rice. "Did you just feed our dinner to the birds?"

"It was only one handful," she protests.

He sighs woefully, remembering that Azula has in fact never cooked her own meals. "One handful of uncooked rice is enough for one person to eat when cooked."

She looks doubtful. "One handful alone? I don't think so. Maybe you have larger hands." She raises her own unoccupied hand in comparison.

What she does not expect is for him to place his own hand against hers, palm to palm, wider by perhaps half its breadth, warm and callused and _comfortable._

"I do."

The loaded silence that follows is only broken by indignant chirping from her other hand: the green bird wants out. She lets it go, Haru simultaneously severing their connection and clearing his throat all too obviously.

…well then. This calls for improvisation. "I call that one Haru, Jr." She points to the one that has just escaped her fist. "The blue one is me, and the ugly grey one is Zuzu."

It works; he snorts and shakes his head, as if bemoaning her terrible sense of humor. She sighs in relief. Maybe after they leave, things will go back to normal, no longer trapped in this taut liminal space waiting for death to visit.

AAA

 _27 January_

On the third day, Jinora gives Haru six gold coins and eight silver. "Go to Chin Village and get yourselves a decent ostrich-horse. You can't walk all the way to the Eastern Air Temple."

He takes the coins with some trepidation. "But this is…"

 _Her life's savings,_ _discarded and unneeded in the end. Is that so surprising?_

"And keep the change," she adds, giving him no room to argue. "Go on."

He leaves, looking vaguely troubled.

With Haru gone, Azula continues reorganizing their supplies, discarding what's not necessary. If they're going to be riding, they'll need to travel light so as not to wear out their beast of burden. Ostrich-horses aren't native to the Fire Nation, so she isn't sure how sturdy they are, but they probably won't be able to bear as much weight as the mongoose-lizards she's used to.

"Azula, come here."

 _What now?_ Warily, she enters the old woman's room, wondering what she wants.

"Over there, on my bookshelf." Jinora points, and she crosses the room to retrieve a thin scroll bound with a red ribbon.

"What is it?"

"Open it and you'll see."

Azula unfurls the scroll and reads. "Rain Dance." She scrutinizes Jinora, puzzled, but the airbender motions for her to keep reading.

The scroll is filled with numerous illustrations of figures in action, and with a jolt, she realizes that they are firebending. She raises her gaze once more, suspicious.

"What makes you think I would find this useful?"

Jinora clucks in amusement, sounding much younger than her illness gives her cause to. "I'm dying, not dumb, dear child. You are a firebender; it's clear as blown glass. I was awake the other night when I heard raised voices, and the candle by my bedside suddenly turned blue. Did you really think Fire Nation money would count for anything here in Chin Village?"

Her tone is just shy of teasing, but Azula fumes at her lack of control and foresight.

"Besides, you look so like your brother."

Zuko? Her mental image of him is a bit blurry, but surely their resemblance isn't that strong. Certainly with his awful scar, she's rather miffed to be compared to him at all.

"Your mother must have been a beauty."

"Why do you say, 'must have been?'" She doesn't know why she's suddenly defensive. It's not as if her mother, dead or alive, matters to her at all.

"Surely she is no longer with you, otherwise how could she have let both of her children leave?"

"You let your son go with Zuko."

"That is true." Jinora wrings a fistful of sheets in one hand, pensive and desolate. "But it's what his father would have wanted, and what I knew was right. I know that they are well, and I do not regret my decision."

 _Neither would my mother have regretted sending me away,_ _t_ _hough for very different reasons._ She manages to put a halter on her rearing bitterness. "My question still stands: what makes you think I would find this useful? What kind of a firebending master would write this?"

An annotation in the bottom right corner catches her eye, and she scoffs in disbelief as she makes the connection. "A disgraced deserter of the Fire Nation Navy, ex-admiral Jeong Jeong?"

This makes sense now. Commander Zhao always spoke disdainfully of his former teacher, a master firebender too hampered by guilt and remorse to fully utilize his skills. He'd deserted to the Earth Kingdom twenty years ago, and no one had seen him since. Apparently, he's been choreographing _rain dances._

"A man who knew how power corrupts and takes the reins for itself," Jinora corrects her quietly. "He taught Avatar Tenzin firebending, turning his back on his own nation in an attempt to restore balance."

"A pathetic old man who feared his own strength," Azula dismisses. "Just like my first firebending master and Uncle Iroh in the war." She laughs aloud, noting the irony. "In a sense, all these ancients pale in comparison with my brother. At least Zuko isn't afraid to use his powers now. In this, at least, we can present a united front to defeat the Fire Lord."

"And then what will you do?" Jinora regards her with a cold, piercing gaze, falling slightly short of accusatory. "Become Fire Lord yourself?"

"Who knows? Fire Lord Azula rolls off the tongue well." She shrugs, folding up the scroll for later, intending to leave.

Jinora halts her with a striking question. "Do you know why Chin the Conqueror called himself 'I, the solitary one?'"

Unbidden, a memory from her childhood history lessons comes to mind. _Chin the Conqueror hailed from a village in the southern Earth Kingdom. He rose from humble origins but eventually became the first Earth King. He reigned for forty years, built the walls of Ba Sing Se, and united fifty provinces._ She knows why, but she will not be dissuaded.

"The higher you rise, the lonelier you get," Jinora says, not pitying but matter-of-fact. "Go dance in the rain some time and remember that it doesn't have to be that way."

AAA

Haru gets back around nightfall, having spent the day acquiring a sturdy ostrich-horse, among other supplies. The familiar sight of him puttering around and preparing for their continued journey is more comforting than she cares to explore right now.

"By the way, women in the Earth Kingdom don't wear their hair in topknots," he informs her seriously. "You can wear it up in a bun, or down and loose, but not a topknot. Generally that's only for men."

Azula gives Haru's hair a critical onceover, itself not in a topknot but still the messy ponytail from the other night, two long strands hanging down the sides mirroring her own. "How am I supposed to firebend properly with my hair hanging in my face?"

"I thought you said you weren't going to firebend?"

He's got her there, though she hates to admit it. Nothing will get them caught faster than blue fire and a girl who clearly has no understanding of stifling Earth Kingdom gender roles, ugh.

"Cheer up," he coaxes, walking around the table to stand behind her. "I got this for you because I knew you'd be grumpy about it."

He shows her a lovely silver hairpin with a large blue glass flower, its crinkled petals translucent and lifelike.

"Blue peony?" A curious choice, but is it deliberate? With a wry smile, she recalls poetry lessons with Master Kuang, nearly a decade ago. "'Though the peony is beautiful, it depends entirely on help from the green leaves.'"

"What?" Clearly that's gone over his head. "Here, I can show you how to do your hair; I used to do it for my mother when her joints got too stiff in the mornings. Let me go borrow a comb from Jinora."

Azula pries the ribbon loose from her topknot and lets her hair fall, cascading around her shoulders, and the hairpin gleams innocently up at her.

Maybe she can suffer this: not being alone, not going through life solitarily like the feudal princes of old. Zuko has those he loves—why can she not? She holds the ornament up to her hair, eyeing its deep sky-blue tinge and judging its weight atop her head.

"Haru, I think it might clash with my eyes." She's joking, of course; it looks lovely. Still, it might be amusing to see him flustered and feverishly trying to come up with reasons as to how flattering the peony looks against her hair, clashing palette notwithstanding.

There is no response from the other room, and it occurs to her that she hasn't heard Jinora cough all afternoon.

Oh.

AAA

His eyes are closed, head bowed over the still figure on the bed, one hand spread over his brow clenched in grief, one hand clutching a frail wrist now limp without life. Next to it rest her final words, written in a remarkably steady hand.

Azula offers no condolences; there is no comfort to be had in empty disturbances of the air between them. Instead, she takes the papers and reads the topmost sheet.

 _Beloved children,_

 _It is as I said—I must leave before you two, and I hope that you will not fault me for the suddenness of my departure. If you should indeed come across Aang in your travels, please give him my last words. He is a kind and generous soul, but he has inherited our people's pain, and he may not be so trusting of you at first. However, the enclosed letters should clarify to him your intent, and I think that he will appreciate the small comfort you lent me in these last days._

 _As for me… airbenders do not observe complex funeral rites. Death is a part of life does not require excessive pomp and ceremony. I only ask that you lay my body to rest under the open air, on a cliff that faces southwest, at high tide when the salt spray is strongest. Do not burn or bury the remains; leave them to nature to dispose of, and my soul will find its way home._

 _Goodbye, dear ones. May the wind be with you._

The remaining letters are enclosed in an envelope, and she glances at them briefly: one is the letter Haru took from the Southern Air Temple, and another is from Jinora to her son. She replaces them and coughs awkwardly.

"It must have been this afternoon, when you were out. I didn't think to stay with her or see if she wanted anything before she…"

He shakes his head mutely, and she trails off, knowing that it would be cruel of her to demand a reprieve for the odd tendril of guilt curling itself around her heart. People die all the time. But for those who love them, they die only once, a painful, heartrending once, and once is enough.

AAA

 _28 January_

The smell of the ocean stings her nostrils, rousing and acrid. The blue peony pin rests amid long loops of hair now hung from her head, no longer the usual austere topknot. One wide section hangs straight down, flying freely in the howling wind, strong gusts tearing through the strands like a demon bent on dragging her into the sea.

The ground beneath them has stood firm against millennia of raging waves, their persistent erosion changing the face of the coastline, but only slowly, so slowly. The change she longs to bring about must be effected far more rapidly.

"Are we really going to just leave her here? It seems such a bleak ending to her life."

"As she said: 'Under the open air, on a cliff that faces southwest, at high tide when the salt spray is strongest,'" Azula recites. "It's what she wanted. Put her down here."

Haru lays the body down on the ground, wrapped in a bedsheet for her shroud. He still looks troubled.

"How do your people lay their dead to rest?"

"We bury them in the ground. They return to the earth," Haru says, stymied at how this is even worth asking.

"We burn our dead in fire and keep their ashes. It is said that their spirits ascend to the sun." Azula looks out at the sea, its roar nearly drowning her out. "Is it so strange, then, that the airbenders would prefer to see their dead laid to rest beneath the open sky?"

He sighs and rises from kneeling beside the body. "You're right," he says shakily. "It just feels… weird. Callous, almost."

"Be at peace," Azula addresses the shroud, ignoring the quiet sniffles in the background.

She might be imagining it, but a whisper caresses her ear before it is carried away by the wind. _Be you also at peace._

Far to the north lies Meikuang, Haru's place. He is so close, yet they are still so far from their goal.

"Do you want to go home, Haru?" she asks plainly, without deceit.

He looks north, too. "Is this some kind of test of my worth or something?"

"Answer the question."

"Yes. Of course, I do," he says frankly. "I haven't been home in months. But I'm not going home now."

"Your parents must miss you." A sentiment she doubts her father shares.

"Yes. But they've got the village to take care of them. They'll be fine. I'm more needed here."

She nods and starts to walk away. Haru casts one final glance at the dead and catches her up. "Besides, I don't trust you alone with an ostrich-horse…"

"Don't presume to mix me up with my brother. If anyone has a bad track record with birds, it's him. I at least managed to charm those sparrowkeets into eating right out of my hand."

"Believe me, I know how to differentiate you from your brother." He shields his right eye with one hand and does a gravelly crackle that vaguely echoes Zuko's voice while it was changing. "I must singlehandedly save the world from the Fire Nation to restore my honor."

"And this is you." He narrows his eyes at her, comedic in his calculated stare, and straightens out the long strands to either side of his face in deliberate tugs quite reminiscent of her habits. "I must find the Avatar so we can defeat the Father Lord together."

Azula can't stop herself; she actually giggles. It's not… it's allowed, yes? They're not in the palace under Ozai's nose anymore. "Your Zuko impression's pretty good," she admits, "but your scar's on the wrong side."

"To be fair, I've never seen a picture of him."

"You'll see the real thing soon enough," she reassures him. They will, one day. After all, there is no limit to the beauty of the peony when supported by verdant, green leaves.

Behind them, three sparrowkeets fly southwesterly away over the ocean.

* * *

 **A/N:** I struggled a lot with this chapter, oftentimes not knowing what I really wanted to convey until it started writing itself. And then I got really stressed because I wanted Tenzin's letter and the poem and Jinora's wisdom to be super meaningful and impactful to Azula, but... I don't know if it came across as such. In some ways, it's a chapter intended to set up for other chapters, so it didn't feel complete to me in the end, but I'm done with it anyways, and you made it to the end! Yay!

See exciting notes about peonies and cicadas here! Archiveofourown dot org /works/7019827/chapters/37314065


	6. ZUKO: Red-Crowned Cranes

_31 January_

 **ZUKO**

"Aang, there's someone watching us," Zuko reports one morning during training, about a week after they arrive at the temple.

Aang beams, as if secret spies encroaching on their practice routine is something to be happy about. "Good! It only took you four minutes to notice today. Normally it takes you six, and even then, you haven't said anything because you weren't sure."

"I felt their breathing disturbing the currents," he explains. "That's a first." He turns toward a dark recess in the long stone hall. "Show yourselves!"

Presently, the disturbances in the air currents resolve themselves into two little girls, each no taller than Zuko's waist. One ducks timidly behind her companion, who advances, curious gaze reserved only for Zuko.

"Are you an… Avatar?"

"Uh… yes, I am." He is, after all, even if people don't usually pursue this line of questioning. He peers down awkwardly at them. "My name is Zuko. And you are?"

"I'm Yue Fei!" the brasher, brighter-eyed of the two introduces herself. Her hair is bound in tight braids, the one over her right shoulder already coming loose from her energetic play. She motions to the smaller girl hiding at her back. "This is my sister Yue Zha."

"Pleased to meet you. And this is Aang, my…"

 _Boyfriend? Light of my life? Everything?_ It's odd how he finds himself unable to express to a tender young child how much of his being is encompassed by what the two of them share. How do you represent that kind of love to one who has never experienced it? Not Yue Fei alone, but the world in general. It's a task worthy of the Avatar state.

Fortunately, Yue Fei doesn't seem terribly concerned with Aang's designation and much more so with Zuko's.

"What exactly is an Avatar?" She sounds out the syllables of the unfamiliar term with care.

" _The_ Avatar," Aang corrects her. "There's only one Avatar at a time, so Zuko is _the_ Avatar. As for your question, the Avatar is the person who saves the world."

 _Thanks, Aang. Way to keep their expectations realistic._

"How are you going to save the world, Avatar Zuko?" Yue Fei asks, curious. "And how come only you can save the world? Why can't me and Yue Zha save the world?"

He smiles, taking the waterskin Aang hands him and drinks, since it's apparently breaktime. This question and answer session will take a while, anyways. He remembers when he would pester his cousin nonstop with similar puzzles without solutions. Children will always go straight for the quandaries that their parents avoid.

"You and Yue Zha can help me if you like," he says sincerely. They'll love that. "But in order to do so, I first have to learn airbending. Aang is teaching me, and after I master airbending, I'll be able to control all four elements. Only the Avatar can do that."

Yue Fei looks impressed, Yue Zha slightly puzzled. "But why do you need to control all four elements? Don't you just have to kill the Fire Lord?" she asks.

He nearly chokes on his water as she casually pops the question. Aang comes to his rescue as he splutters. "Well you see, Yue Zha, one does not simply walk into the Fire Lord's palace and challenge him to a duel. For one, he is _very_ good at firebending."

"Oh! So if Zuko gets to be very good at airbending _and_ firebending _and_ earthbending _and_ waterbending," Yue Fei laboriously counts off the elements on her fingers, "then it'll be easier for him to beat the Fire Lord, right?"

 _Perfect marks, Yue Fei._ Aang dutifully ushers the two girls out as Zuko closes his eyes and begins to consider in earnest the dilemma he has been avoiding.

ZZZ

He finds Tenzin beneath the highest spire of the main tower, his grey eyes shining in piercing recognition.

"Zuko. It has been a while."

"Yes, it has." At times, he feels as if the days have been passing by so quickly, not even giving him pause to search within himself for counsel. He should have done this long ago.

"You and Aang have been getting along exceedingly well." There is a smile on Tenzin's face, serene and patient, but Zuko starts to dissemble on reflex, anxious about securing approval from his own past life.

"The Air Nomads were accepting of differences and embraced everyone, no matter their orientation. That my son has found happiness with you, and vice versa, only gives me cause for celebration."

Well, that's a relief. "Avatar Tenzin, I wanted to ask you something." There seems to him no other way to broach this daunting topic. "When I face my father, Fire Lord Ozai, should I kill him?"

Tenzin rises from his meditation, and Zuko looks around as he does so. They are in the same room, though here in the Avatar plane, Aang is not present, and the outlines of the walls around them are faint.

"In all darkness, a little light grows. In all light, a little darkness festers. Such is the world.

"All life is sacred. The question you must answer is this: does killing thousands of innocents make Fire Lord Ozai's life less sacred in turn? Are you prepared to commit sacrilege for him?"

On the floor, Tenzin traces the circumference of a massive yin and yang symbol, following its edge with his footsteps. Zuko mimics him on the opposite side of the circle, an endless cycle of dark and light.

"I have heard that firebenders do not forgive easily," Tenzin says, perhaps a little solicitously.

"And I have heard it said that you should never ask airbenders for advice, for they will answer both yes and no," Zuko says, his words a little biting, a little bitter.

Tenzin raises an eyebrow, its arc encroaching on the wide expanse of his forehead, wrinkling back and back into his tattooed scalp. His incredulity would be amusing if Zuko were not feeling so entrapped in his present situation. "Has Aang told you as much?"

"Not as such. He says he'll support my decision, no matter what it is. But… that doesn't help me decide what I should do. And everyone I've asked gives mixed advice."

 _"Why are you even asking? Of course you should kill him. He's killed enough people to raise the sea levels by three feet if you threw them all in," Sokka says, his gruesome imagery hammering his point home, though who knows what calculations enabled him to arrive at this number._

 _Katara's silence tells all about where she stands on the matter. The name of Yon Rha hangs heavy on her heart, but she does not let it drag her into what she considers to be the most abhorrent crime: vengeance, a life for a life._

 _"What's heavier, a pound of feathers, or a pound of rocks?" Toph asks, seemingly out of nowhere._

 _"The feathers." He gives an automatic answer before registering her actual words. "Wait, no, they're the same."_

 _"Well, isn't that wild?" she says sarcastically. "That all that meaningless fluff should be equivalent to a pound of useful rocks that I could bend towards your skull to knock the meaningless fluff out of it?" Toph cracks her knuckles in a promise of what's to come if he doesn't decide rightly._

 _"You're essentially weighing_ your _virtue against thousands of lives lost and thousands more with the potential to be lost and finding them to be equal when they shouldn't be," she illustrates. "This is about more than you, though admittedly, this advice isn't bound to be much help coming from the most selfish person on the team."_

"So basically, I need to step back and recalibrate my scales. Imagine that I am divine justice, play God, and strike down the unworthy, all in a day's work," he reasons, dragging Toph's handy metaphor a little too far. Thinking about becoming his father's executioner is clearly making him sardonic.

"You are not God," Tenzin points out. "If there are gods, they have not earned their titles through dutiful guardianship of this world. They have done nothing for the peace that you strive for. Your final choice will decide whether you join their ranks or exceed them."

* * *

 _Chameleon Bay_

 **IROH**

The White Lotus is on the move, and as a Grand Lotus, Iroh takes up the duty of recruiting allies close to Ba Sing Se, which will see the most fire come the day of Sozin's comet. The warriors of the Southern Water Tribe have long proved themselves to be capable fighters. He is glad to make their acquaintance, as well as learn a little bit about their culture and oral tradition, which seems to include telling horror stories late at night. _Very_ late at night.

"Koh, the face-stealer, scourge of the North. He is malice incarnate, a force of darkness that bleeds into the long winter nights when the sun does not rise for months. When you hear a rattling hiss beyond the door, do not look outside, for it is he, the face-stealer, he of putrid rot, a malevolent vacuum with scorpions for claws and guts of slime."

Katara and Sokka listen breathlessly with excitement, enthralled at their father's dramatic retelling. The small blind girl accompanying Chief Hakoda's children—Toph Beifong, as he recalls—yawns widely, not so impressed. Iroh has to admit that he has heard enough iterations of "Koh, the face-stealer, scourge-of-the- _North yes-we've-been-over-this-what-happens-next-please?"_ in the past few minutes to satisfy his curiosity.

"He moves as silently as the snowdrifts, but when he attacks, he is swift and terrible as an avalanche, and his victims fall, faceless, reduced to a fateless existence."

"Can I clarify for a moment?" Toph's interruption is brusque, abrupt. "What do you _mean_ he steals your face? Does he rip it off with his scorpion claws? Is there a bloody mess left behind?" These are, after all, the important questions.

Hakoda hm's, stumped. "Not as such, no. It is said that when he takes your face, he leaves behind a smooth surface that contains no expression. You essentially become a body without a soul that cannot speak, eat, or show any emotion. It is a desolate state to be in."

"But why does he take faces?" Sokka asks. "For the fun of it?"

He shrugs. "No one knows. Your grandmother told me the tale, and other refugees who traveled with her from the North witnessed it as well. According to them, Koh said not a word before he attacked and departed as mysteriously as he descended."

Katara traces one strand of her hair loops thoughtfully. "The spy Naoki killed Tui, so I wonder if perhaps Koh took her face in retaliation, styling himself as some sort of guardian of the spirits."

"I would imagine it has to do with his need to feed on the energy provided by human emotions," Iroh suggests. "Emotions are powerful. They give us the strength to persist in this world against all odds. Koh has no source of his own, so he steals those of others. His is a miserable existence."

"Well, I wouldn't mind if Koh took some of my emotions," Sokka says. "Just the bad ones, like… like fear! It would be great if I were never afraid—not that I'm really scared of anything, haha, not me," he hastily amends, hoping not to lose face in front of his father. "Then I could charge into battle and defeat everyone on pure adrenaline."

Hakoda laughs. "Fear exists for a reason: to temper your thoughts and give you the clarity to do exactly the opposite of that. Rushing hotheaded into a fight will give you more room to lose what's most valuable to you."

"Eh, I guess." Sokka doesn't sound like he agrees, the bravado of youth buoying his conviction.

But is that not just what General Iroh, a younger man, did in the war on Ba Sing Se? It cost him his son, and if he does not take care now, it will cost him another one.

Later, Hakoda leaves the tent with Sokka in tow to settle affairs of the night watch and tomorrow's agendas with his warriors. Toph slouches out after them, her feet equally suited to guiding her through night as day. Katara remains, her eyes vacantly reflecting the firelight, but Iroh notes how her posture remains staid and rigid, battle-ready out of habit.

He asks after his nephew, having been out of contact for so long, though not entirely of his own choice.

Katara stirs, the soft firelight spell broken. "He's…" She hesitates. "He's well. He's growing and learning as the Avatar. His waterbending is really something else, though I haven't exactly got a lot to compare it to.

"I'm worried about him, though. I'm worried that he won't have the willpower to do what's needed of him as the Avatar, when it comes to Fire Lord Ozai."

Iroh nods; this has been on his mind also. It's not right, though, that Zuko should have to be the one to deal with this, when his only fault was being born into the wrong family.

"If I were him, I wouldn't kill the Fire Lord." Katara fidgets with the braided edge of her hem, worrying the strands between her fingers. "I would not sink to his level and commit cold-blooded murder. But at the same time, Zuko doesn't have much of a choice. Trying to strike a peace treaty with Ozai is about as likely as striking a match underwater… unless you know your brother better?"

"If I had truly known him five years ago, we might not be where we are today." If Iroh had returned home instead of wandering, mind and soul muddled by grief, leaving Ozai to reshape the Fire Nation as he pleased, things would be different. If he had not placed such onus on his son to shoulder burdens greater than his capacity to bear, he might still be alive, and Ozai would not have had the chance to strike in the first place.

If only…

But this time is different. This time, he can preempt those _if only_ 's, and he can protect Zuko from their aftermath, the events of the past cycled over and over like a tired watermill. It is not the first time history has seen brother kill brother, but perhaps the novelty lies in the meaning behind the act.

* * *

 **ZUKO**

He wanders through the temple until he comes to the wide, circular fountain of the grand balcony. This seems as good a place as any to continue his meditation. He closes his eyes, presses his thumbs together, knuckles interlocking in perfect harmony, and thinks of stormy seas and carven glaciers.

Before him stands a tall man, broad and rugged, with the terrifying maw of a wolf pelt slung over his head—Avatar Kuruk.

"Back when I brought Naoki to the North Pole, many objected to her presence and said she could not be trusted," Kuruk says. "I should have listened to them. I lost everything because of my selfishness."

"But even when you found out she betrayed you, when she killed the moon spirit," he recalls the tragic history Yue imparted to him, "you didn't kill her. The spirit Koh took her face instead. If he hadn't… what would you have done?"

Kuruk shakes his head. "The heart is not rational. I cannot say with certainty that I would have ended her. It would not have righted any of the wrongs she committed, but it would have torn my heart apart."

Zuko sighs, blowing out a quick breath of… relief? Sympathy? Everything right now is as foreign to him as the sea floor, a place unknown yet crushing under the weight of atmospheres. It's less upsetting, in a twisted, profane way, to know that a previous Avatar made such a monumental mistake. The Avatar, however deified, is only human, not perfect, and subject to failure like anyone else.

Kuruk looks grimly down at him; he probably heard that taboo thought via the liberal transmittance of emotion and consciousness that the Avatar plane enables. The Water Tribe Avatar rests his interlaced hands on the base of a whalebone club, similar to the one Sokka uses but much stouter and longer. The weapon of a young warrior in his prime, and Zuko rolls back the decades in his childhood history lessons. Kuruk was in his mid-twenties then, a scant few years older than Zuko is now.

"For a few triumphant moments, she was the moon-slayer, until Koh had his retribution. A fate worse than death." These words are the same as Yue's. "Perhaps she died happy. I wasn't close enough to see her face as Koh lifted it away."

"A fate worse than death," Zuko echoes. "So you might say I'm being merciful by killing my father."

"I did not say that, nor will I," Kuruk says reprovingly. "The only wisdom I can offer you is the wisdom of hindsight. Do not be blinded by the beauty of the glacier, or you will fail to notice the cracks in its shelf."

Zuko frowns at him, stymied by the icy imagery.

"…and then it will slide off and the iceberg will capsize your boat, drowning you within sight of that which you dearly loved," Kuruk explains as he perceives the other's confusion. "Perhaps that wasn't the best metaphor."

There isn't much more to be gained here. Without conscious thought, he lets the vision of the Water Tribe Avatar fade, his gaze resting on the far pillar in the courtyard where he and Aang first kissed in the Air Temple.

Both Kuruk and Yue counseled him against being blinded by love, but he has to wonder if they're just being old cynics, spurned by the apple of their eye, ladling out such doleful advice to the next generations in turn.

It doesn't matter. He closes his eyes and pushes on down the line of the Avatars past.

ZZZ

He blinks, and before him stands a woman in a long green skirt wearing a headdress in the shape of a gold fan. Her face is painted for war, red eyeliner on a fearsome white mask, but it is not until he steps closer than he realizes—her face is smooth and unlined, as young as the day she died.

At once, he is on the receiving end of the most intense, gripping stare as she speaks. "I have had to watch two of my successors die because of this war, Avatar Zuko. Each left the world in even greater chaos. I refuse to let you be the third."

Before he can summon a response, she forges on. "Do you know how I died?"

"I…no, I don't," he says, though it seems a little rude. The details have been lost to time, memorialized only as another victory in Fire Lord Sozin's long list of accolades. Even Lu Ten could only tell him where and when she was killed.

"Do you know why your great-grandfather started the tradition of hunting dragons?"

He stalls, bewildered at one question after another, feeling like he's back before Fire Lord Azulon, failing his cross-examination about the battle of Han Tui while Azula breezes right through. "Well, it was for… achieving glory and fame as a great firebender. Not that I think that was a glorious thing at all, obviously not," he qualifies before Kyoshi impales him with another dark look.

"No." Her ire is palpable, just short of boiling over. "That is not why it was started, nor why he hunted the dragons to extinction."

"Enlighten me, then," he shoots back, somewhat fed up with her opaque demeanor.

"See for yourself."

The Avatar plane around them shifts until they are standing, incorporeal, before a mountainous island, its rocky crags surrounding a sheltered bay.

"Kyoshi Island, off the coast of Chin Village in the southern Earth Kingdom. Long before my time, Chin the Conqueror set his sights on our island and sought to take the territory for his own. We were few in number, and we might have been defeated by him had it not been for one thing."

Suddenly, the waters of the bay churn and spray as a huge creature breaches its surface, a giant serpentine figure with fins spanning its head and neck, sharp teeth filling a jaw three times as long as a man's height. It crests and dives back into the depths again, the foaming water the only indicator of its presence.

"The Unagi is native to these waters, and the people of Kyoshi Island have always respected its hunting and breeding grounds. In turn, it has protected our island for hundreds of years. Before its wrath, Chin the Conqueror turned around and fled, his fleet in tatters, and so did countless invaders over the years, pirates, smugglers, Water Tribe explorers, all manner of people from distant, hostile lands. We lived in peace, until the Fire Nation came along."

 _Oh, okay, so it's going to be_ that _kind of a conversation._

"I was seventeen when Sozin's forces tracked me down to the island. They were… somewhat overprepared."

From a distance, they watch as Kyoshi, a lone figure, stands tall on the beach, facing down half a dozen ships crammed together in the narrow bay, their hulls nearly touching. To their fore stands a sight that Zuko has only seen in Avatar Roku's memories. At the center of the inlet, the battalion is headed by his great-grandfather Sozin, astride his dragon with rich cobalt-blue scales, dwarfing the soldiers on the ships beneath it and easily matching the Unagi in size, foot for foot.

He does not have to watch to know what happens next. A conflagration, a funeral pyre for one who never volunteered to absolve the world's iniquities, the solitary one on the cusp of adulthood, doomed never to age. The bay blazes, the Unagi thrashes beneath its surface, and the sky burns red long into the night.

"Who needs an army when you have a dragon?" Kyoshi says bitterly. "But that begs the question: why then did Sozin wipe out his greatest weapon? To throw your weapon away is to throw your hope away."

She looks expectantly at him, as if he should be answerable to the follies of his genocidal ancestor who longed to take over the world, who even let his best friend die to further his grasping vision. He thinks of Avatar Roku's ashen end, and the truth is obvious. "Because he could not control them."

"Dragons are not dumb creatures," Kyoshi says. She turns to face the only structure still standing in the village, a statue in her image, a warrior in full armor. "They do not speak, but your great-grandfathers both could attest that they are keenly perceptive of human intentions and morality. Sozin bent them to his will at Kyoshi Bay, and at numerous battles throughout the Earth Kingdom, but in time, they refused to be complicit with his grand scheme. Those who cannot be controlled or conquered must be destroyed, as I was _._ "

"I'm sorry," he says helplessly, looking at the statue too. It towers high above them, the last vestige of the unbreakable spirit of its namesake, in theory a beacon of fortitude to stir his strength, but in reality, only a reminder of the stain his forebears left splashed across the pages of history.

"Sorry enough to kill your father and make sure it never happens again?"

He hesitates.

"Fire Lord Ozai ceased to be your father the moment he raised his hand against you with the intent to kill," Kyoshi says, and if he thought she was intense earlier, it is nothing compared to her now. She is practically spitting with cold fury, stalking forward towards him, bent on driving him into a mental corner. "And I don't mean your Agni Kai. I mean when you were born. He tried to kill you then; he as good as declared you dead to him sixteen years later. Nothing reminded me so much of Sozin as your father when he struck you down at the Agni Kai."

She presses forward, extending one arm and touching the edge of one fan to his scar, the skin there unfeeling of its cold metal. "Your father is no different—he lives to destroy. You are not the only one whose innocence he has shattered."

"No, indeed, Avatar Kyoshi."

She laughs quietly, the first such sound he has heard from her, and it is with a sliver of pained mirth that she says, "My name was not Kyoshi."

"What?"

She sighs, sounding for a moment much older than her years, and nods up at the looming statue behind them. "That is the real Kyoshi, not me. That statue was built in the likeness of our legendary founder who emigrated from the mainland to escape the tyranny of the Conqueror, centuries before I was born.

"While I lived, the world at large did not know that I was the Avatar. My father, the governor of the island, secretly sought the help of the Southern Water Tribe and Air Nomads passing through the region to teach me their arts. Though it was not nearly enough to master the elements, it was enough that the name of Avatar wasn't wasted on me. For obvious reasons, he had a more difficult time finding a firebending master. Still, word got out that there was a young girl at Kyoshi Island who could bend three elements—her name wasn't important.

"In any case, we didn't have time to do introductions before Sozin and his dragon obliterated the village, and no one was left alive to correct him when he claimed his victory over Avatar 'Kyoshi.' He really did do a thorough job of killing me, down to my own name."

Zuko opens his mouth, strangely dry though his eyes are wet. "What… what was your name, then?"

"I was named after the daughter of Kyoshi, the second governor of the island. My name was Koko.

"Do not forget me, Avatar Zuko. More importantly, do not let _your_ name be remembered in condemnation throughout the dark ages, the one who failed to stop the Fire Lord."

For some reason, he cannot resist the pull of his tears, why now and not before—he does not know. Perhaps it is the injustice of it all, how Kyoshi—no, Koko—lived and died under the onus of a title she could not even fully attain before she was destroyed. She never had a chance, and now, he _does_ have the chance to make things right in their stead.

The last of her he sees through a veil of tears. Strangely, a feeling of vertigo overcomes him as if he is falling, the sound of rushing water nearby like a tidal wave sweeping him away. He hears her as if he is underwater, muffled but ominous:

"Only justice will bring peace; only impartiality will restore balance."

ZZZ

"Zuko?"

He opens his eyes to see Yue Fei leaning curiously over him. For some reason, he's half-lying in the fountain instead of sitting on the edge of it as he originally was. He takes the small hand she offers to help him up out of the water.

"Are you okay? Why're you crying?"

"Yue Fei pushed you in, Zuko. I'm so sorry but I couldn't stop her," Yue Zha apologizes, looking very abashed. "You were doing important Avatar stuff. We shouldn't have disturbed you."

Aang appears at his side, looking concerned. "Yue Fei, Yue Zha, thank you so much for your help. Now shoo please, I've got it from here."

The two girls scatter, Yue Fei still peeking back at Zuko with worry, Yue Zha dragging her by the hand away, leaving them alone.

He anticipates the questions to come and presses his lips tight together in reluctance, not wanting to answer anything at the moment.

Aang understands. "You were crying," he explains. "I don't know why, and you don't have to tell me, but I couldn't bear to see you in distress, even if it was for a good reason. So… I might have hinted to Yue Fei that it would be fun to catch you off guard and wake you up by pushing you into the fountain. Maybe I shouldn't have."

Trust Aang to come up with the most unconventional solution to prevent him from shedding another tear. "No, I'm glad she interrupted when she did." It feels like the coward's way out, but he doesn't think he could have taken much more of Kyoshi—no, _Koko_ —and her barrage. He stands, and his clothes soaked from the fountain don't weigh nearly as much as the memories of lives gone by.

* * *

 **AANG**

He finds Zuko dried off and sitting on the edge of the windowsill by the time he gets back with what he was looking for. The window is open to the air, without panes or a screen, as all air temples are designed. Zuko looks listlessly down at his lap instead of at the sky outside.

"Look what I found."

He turns his gaze, more out of reflex than actual interest. In Aang's hands rest a beautifully shaped paper crane, realistic in its features, though not in its size. Its white feathers are edged with black, long neck arching into a head striped thrice, red, white and black from crown to throat.

"Crane kites were very popular among the Air Nomads." He informs Zuko, slotting himself into the window seat next to the Avatar. "The red-crowned crane is a symbol of longevity, loyalty, and strength. They fly thousands of miles south every year to mate and raise their babies."

Zuko notices that there is no string attached to the kite but soon finds out that there is no need. Under Aang's deft guidance, the paper crane alights from the window and rides the currents gaily, never straying beyond his control.

He wriggles himself into the crook of Aang's arm, resting his head against his shoulder. While this does somewhat impede Aang's ability to fly the kite, he doesn't mind. They both watch the flight of the crane for a while, looping and soaring through the air, and Aang huddles closer to Zuko's side, trying to draw away the chill that lingers from whatever Avatar Kyoshi told him.

"It reminds me of Avatar Kyoshi's war paint. She was no older than you when she died. Hardly a symbol of longevity."

Aang draws the crane back in, sensing that his undivided attention is needed right now. He takes Zuko's hands in his own, but they remain tense and unyielding. Nonetheless, he does not let go.

"I'm afraid that if I don't kill my father, I'll be letting everyone down, plus all my past lives."

He rubs his thumb over those whitened knuckles but says nothing, letting Zuko continue.

"But I'm also afraid that I'll slowly become what I hate: someone who kills those in their way because it's easy and convenient. Because they _deserve_ it… however _deserve_ is determined. My father, and who else? My sister? Every high general of the Fire Nation who refuses to surrender?

"I'm afraid of who I could become—everything my cousin and my uncle taught me to reject."

Aang takes a quick breath in, the expansion of his frame shifting Zuko's as well. Before he can speak, the other forestalls what's next on his tongue. "I'm afraid you won't be able to stop me. I'm afraid you will try to stop me, but that I won't listen, or worse, cut you out of my way. That I wouldn't be true to you in spite of everything we are to each other."

Zuko has told him these things before, but there is a different flavor of abandon to his agony this time, the result of seeing Avatar Kyoshi's downfall through her own memories. They have both seen the results of the Fire Lord's desecration of lands and lives not his own, but only ever secondhand, after his victims have done their best to sweep up the ashes and graft their old lives to new homes.

It never stops. He does not know what to say in the face of endless night, so he curls an arm tighter around Zuko's shoulders and watches the point where the sun disappears beyond the horizon to shine over other lands unknown.

* * *

 **A/N:** Notes on Kyoshi's background, Yue Fei, and red-crowned cranes: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/15978724


	7. ZUKO, LU TEN: Heirs of the Dragon

_12 February_

 **HANYU**

It has been a long, rainless winter, colder than usual. He looks out his front door at the barren fields, fallow with last year's empty stalks. The plum blossoms are late to bloom this season, but the fire lilies should blossom as normal in early summer, even if the spring is harsh and dry.

He remembers one who once styled himself a fire lily. Unlike him, they're hardy, perennial flowers, long outliving him and surviving to see another summer.

Retreating back into the warmth indoors, he digs a modest helping of pickled cabbage out of one of the jars he'd stored away before winter's chill. Sometimes, he almost forgets the war, the past, promises broken, and what he's living for, still.

In the corner of the room, on a stool next to his _erhu_ stand, rests the miniature dragon Zuko left with him, an unwitting memorial. The dragon's eyes swim with soft flame, sapphire blue and hauntingly piercing, and unbidden, the last line of the Ballad of the Azure Dragon rises to his mind:

"Dragon, Azure Dragon, brighten your eyes; brighten your eyes forevermore."

Abandoning his meal, he reworks the tune of the ballad, fiddling with his _erhu_ for a while. Instead of a triumphant recounting of Lu Ten's victories, he drags a deep, doleful tone from its two strings, the first verse drifting through his mind, his voice no longer able to give the words life.

Far in the east winds a mighty river

They call it the Argent River

Far in the east flows a gentle river

They call it the Maple River

Never have I witnessed Argent's beauty

Yet it winds mysteriously through my dreams

Never have I heard of Maple's strength

Yet its surges billow through my sleep

This song in particular is not Hanyu's own work. It was written by his comrades Songzhen and Songtao before the war claimed their lives. To him, Lu Ten was never that: the Azure Dragon of the East, brightest of his generation, a rising star in the Fire Nation ranks. He was…

 _He was my love. Singular and solitary,_ mine.

The ballads never reflected that, but Hanyu prefers it that way. Anyone can sing of Lu Ten's victories, at Argent River, at Maple River, at any of the numerous battlefields they have experienced together. Anyone can recount his prowess, the bite of his swords as cold as the singe of his lightning which split the sky in shards. Hanyu will keep his heart's song locked away in his throat, key discarded, safe from the world forevermore.

* * *

 **AANG**

"What are you doing?"

He's a little gratified to see Zuko jump and startle, not having heard him enter the hall.

"Sifu Aang!" he greets. For some reason, Yue Fei and Yue Zha are always enormously amused by Zuko calling him that. "Sorry for the diversion. I was helping Yue Fei to get—"

He holds up a hand, cutting Zuko off. It's obvious _what_ he's doing, but Aang means to ask, " _Why_ are you doing what you're doing instead of what you're supposed to be doing, which is rehearsing the fifty-seven steps to creating and maintaining a helical air current?"

He doesn't mean to sound quite so piqued, but they do need to get a move on with the fifty-seven steps.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I think there's more to being the Avatar than training," Zuko defends his actions. "Being Avatar means living among the people and helping them in every aspect of their lives, great or small. And that includes helping Yue Fei and Yue Zha get their cat down from on top of Guru Laghima's head."

The sanctuary does indeed house a larger-than-life bust of the guru's head, some twelve feet high, and it's currently adorned with an orange and white tabby cat meowing pitifully at the rest of them on the ground.

Zuko has a point. They've been at the air temple for a few weeks now, training and meditating together daily, but that's not the Avatar's only charge. The Mechanist, a capable leader despite his strange mannerisms, has the village up and running smoothly, but there are always tasks and odd ends that can use an Avatar's help.

"I suppose you're right," he allows. The Avatar stands for hope and change, and there's no better way to effect such symbolism than by directly touching the lives of the people. "Still, you've got to master the fifty-seven steps by the end of the week or I'll despair of ever teaching you what you need to know."

Zuko smiles brightly. "Thank you, Sifu Aang!"

Is that really what he's trying to do, though? Aang wonders. Embody the ideals of the Avatar, or avoid the one duty of the Avatar that doesn't sit well with him?

Fire Lord Ozai isn't going to kill himself, but does he need to die at all?

* * *

 **ZUKO**

He teaches a class of young children their characters. Each student hunches over a smoothed-over sandbox, chubby fists clenched tight around long sticks in a way that would make any calligraphy teacher despair.

 _Everyone has to start somewhere,_ he reasons. And there is no better place to start than with his own first teacher.

"Let's begin by learning the Ballad of the Azure Dragon."

The words spring to his lips easily, fresh in his mind from when he'd heard it recited a few evenings ago, among the older men of the village who had been in the war, however briefly. He's surprised that it's spread this far from the battlefield at the walls of Ba Sing Se, and still more so at the fact that the Azure Dragon is practically a household name in this part of the northern Earth Kingdom, especially considering how Lu Ten has faded into ignominious obscurity in his own homeland.

"Here's how the second verse goes:

In the ancient east, there lives a dragon

Its name is the Azure Dragon

In the ancient west, there dwell a people

They are the heirs of the dragon

At the dragon's feet, I was born and raised

Raised to become the heir of the dragon

Desire and will and spirits of fire

Forevermore heirs of the dragon

He demonstrates each character one by one, watching as the students lift their writing implements to trace its strokes in the sand, ephemeral and easy to correct any mistakes. If he's being realistic, they'll probably only get through the first two lines today, but that will be enough to spark their interest for the future about the mysterious Azure Dragon and who it actually represents. This is his cousin's legacy, and he does not want it to be lost from the annals of history.

"Avatar Zuko!" one girl twitters as they practice writing the character for 'east'. They insist on including his title every time even though he's fine with just his name. "Did you say this line is supposed to be above or below the box?"

He stifles a chuckle at her terminology, the result of him trying to reduce the characters to the simplest possible components. He's learned his lesson from when Lu Ten first taught him to write and straight off the bat tried to explain character theory in terms of complicated radicals, homophones, homonyms, etc., receiving blank stares in return. Teaching is hard.

"Here, Yin, let me show you. The character 'east' is made up of two other characters, 'sun' and 'tree'. Where does the sun rise?"

"In the east," Yin answers readily.

"So, if you place the 'sun' character right over the 'tree' character, it's as if the sun is rising over the trees, in the _east._ "

A delighted gasp from Yin as she realizes how the characters slot together to form a word greater than the sum of their individual meanings. Zuko smiles as he remembers how patient his cousin was with him, once upon a time, slowly walking him through every stroke and meaning as he is doing now with the children.

He judges class to be over when the children start to be more interested in poking each other with their sticks than writing with them and dismisses them with the promise of resuming their lessons the day after next. _Aang will be less than pleased if I schedule writing classes every single day._

It's been a long day of errands and cat-wrangling and learning, and Yue Fei drags her feet as she carries her sister Yue Zha on her back. He slows his steps to let them keep pace.

"Did you ever meet the Azure Dragon?" Yue Fei asks. "What was he like? Could he breathe fire like a real dragon?"

Zuko laughs. He'd never truly seen the full extent of Lu Ten's breath of fire; quick puffs here and there to light candles and such, but nothing comparable to his father's expansive capacity. "Probably not as big a flame as a real dragon—not that I've ever seen one. He was actually the one to teach me firebending. In all ways, he was the brother I never had."

"Do you have a sister?" Yue Zha asks, parsing what remains unspoken in his reminiscence. She doesn't look up as she speaks, single-mindedly focusing on rebraiding Yue Fei's disheveled hair. The grip of her legs around her sister's waist is loose and relaxed. They've probably done this many times; sister carrying sister with complete faith in each other.

"I do," Zuko answers a little less readily. He hasn't thought of Azula for quite some time, and he wonders if he misses her. He doesn't think he does. "We're twins, but she's younger than me." He snorts a little at his own childish impulse to assert his seniority, as if sixteen minutes makes a difference.

"Yue Zha's younger than me, too, so I always take care of her." Yue Fei shifts Yue Zha's weight a little on her back, gradually tiring. It hasn't escaped his notice that Yue Zha's a little lame in the left foot, probably from trauma during the birthing process or else an illness in early childhood. Naturally, her older sibling would take over the responsibility of carrying her places.

 _"Zuzu, help me!"_

 _As a child, Azula loved getting into trouble far more than Zuko, but at five years old, she wasn't quite as apt at getting out of it. So when Zuko hears a loud crashing sound coming from one of the drawing rooms that they aren't supposed to be in, he can guess what's happened._

 _He slips in to see Azula huddled on the ground, rubbing her head furiously, the smashed pieces of a bust of Fire Lord Sozin (at least he thinks it's Sozin; he's never been great at telling the grumpy, lined features of their various ancestors apart) littering the area around her. He rushes over to her, picking his way through the dusty debris and wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders. "What were you thinking, knocking over that statue? Mom's gonna be mad at you!"_

 _"I didn't want to knock over the stupid statue. I was trying to catch a cicada that flew in from the garden." Her voice is hiccuppy with pain, and he pulls her hands away from her head to reveal a swollen, reddened bump on the back of her scalp. "The stupid bug ran away from me, and I bumped into the cabinet." She nods at the overwhelmingly tall piece of furniture behind her, from which Sozin's bust must have fallen right onto her head._

 _He sighs. "It's gonna be okay, 'zula."_

 _"No it's not!" she wails, magnified by the pain and her fear of repercussion. "You said it yourself, Mom won't be happy about this. She says I'm always messing things up."_

 _"I mean it," he says firmly. "It'll be okay. We'll tell Mom that I broke the statue."_

 _She stops crying and looks at him incredulously. "Why?"_

 _"I haven't broken any statues before, right?" Not yet, anyways. "So she won't be as mad. Come on, up." He crouches down, turning his back to her._

 _"Why're you so nice to me?" Azula wonders as she clambers, ungainly, onto his back. He straightens up slowly, grip under her legs firm and tight. They leave the pieces for the servants to clean up; they'll probably tattle to Mom, and then he'll tell her what didn't in fact happen. "Mom's never nice to me. Well, sometimes. And Dad only cares about what we're learning with our tutors. He never comes to play with us or show us any firebending."_

 _Zuko shrugs, the movement making Azula's chin bob up and down where she rests it on his shoulder. She tightens her arms around his chest as he starts walking, carrying her back to find their mother, who's probably wondering where they've gotten off to, and more importantly, who can do something for Azula's head._

 _"Don't be silly, 'zula. You're my sister; why wouldn't I be nice to you?"_

 _Their mother doesn't look quite like she believes Zuko broke the statue, but she lets it pass without much fuss. Azula helps him copy part of the lines on orderly conduct and etiquette that he's assigned as punishment. He hardly even remembers the passage or what book it's from, so thank goodness he has Azula to help. If their mother notices that his handwriting is much neater than usual, she doesn't comment._

Under his fluid guidance, a gyrating sphere of air materializes under Yue Fei's feet, lifting her and Yue Zha off the ground and smoothly following him as he manifests his own air scooter and hops on.

"Wow!" Yue Fei's face is a panorama of wonder. "This is _so much better_ than walking!" Yue Zha clings tightly to her sister, her face no less excited, peering over her shoulder to look at their immaterial support.

"Race you!" Zuko announces as they set off back towards the hall where he typically rendezvouses with Aang at the end of the day if they've spent it apart. He's counting on Yue Fei and Yue Zha not to realize that since he's maintaining both air scooters, they have no control over who wins, and he can crown himself the decisive winner.

Up and over the stairs they go, attracting stares and shouts of surprise as they pass. He tries to give some warning to very confused passerby so they aren't lifted right off their feet by the current. It's more excitement than he's had in ages, thanks to Aang teaching him this particular move, and Yue Fei and Yue Zha's cries of delight behind him only augment that heady joy.

It's odd how he's missed being an older brother, not that he's had much chance to be one ever since he and Azula turned seven and began their separate ways in life. Playing with these two reminds him of what it was like, and he swallows down the regret for everything that changed between them, the longing for what could have been, the dread he feels as he stares down the chasm that divides them.

* * *

 **JET**

"You really don't have to do this, you know." Jet nudges the tin bowl at Mushi's feet; its empty clatter on the cobblestones is forlorn and hollow.

Lu Ten ignores him and strums contently on his borrowed lute, picking out a tune that sounds like a remix of the melody he played that afternoon in Ba Sing Se.

"I mean it. I'm not as good as Longshot or Tan Jiao with a bow, but I can nab a rabbit or a deer without too much trouble." He taps the short bow Tan Jiao gave him when they parted ways in an attempt at an apology (Jet accepted the bow, not the apology).

"You and Miao may be able to subsist on flesh of varying degrees of cooked, but I for one would like to be able to afford some pineapple buns or tea from time to time."

Ugh, fine. He's not sure why he cares so much about reassuring Lu Ten that he can provide for them. Probably force of habit left over from his Freedom Fighter days.

 _They'll be fine_ , he tells himself. _Hell, they'll be better off without me._ He'd left of his own accord after the fiasco with the dam, but many of them—Smellerbee and Longshot especially—hadn't exactly voiced their disapproval.

"If only your past self could see you now," he muses. "He'd probably be mortified at your lack of dignity."

"Tell me about me, then," Lu Ten says as he continues to eke out a meager melody, not quite sure of his direction yet. "How do you know so much about that 'me' if we only met once?"

 _He sounds too much like he's humoring me_ , Jet grouses.

"All I knew about you at first was your name, and your father, Iroh, the Fire Nation's greatest general. Over the years, I put together some of the picture by spying on Fire Nation soldiers and listening to every little bit of news that came my way, about the war, about General Iroh, about you. Until I heard that you'd died, anyways."

He picks up a piece of buckwheat scattered from a passing wagon loaded with feed for livestock. Out of habit, he jabs it into the corner of his mouth, but it feels foreign and contrived, at odds with the Jet that is no longer of the Freedom Fighters.

"How did I die?" Lu Ten asks with the morbidity of detachment. He still doesn't think of himself as the person Jet's describing.

"I heard that you were ambushed at the inner wall of Ba Sing Se by a troop of earthbenders ten times the size of yours," Jet says soberly. He spits out the buckwheat, and it blows away like chaff in the wind. "Your body was never found. I figure you must have been captured by the Dai Li before help arrived. You should be glad you don't remember whatever they did to you before they erased your memories. And the rest is as you know it: "Sister" Shu let you loose in the city, and you chose to spend your time brewing hot leaf juice."

"That's strange." Lu Ten's fingers still vaguely follow their prescribed tune, even as he ponders Jet's words. "If the Dai Li captured me, why wouldn't they have tried to finagle a hostage deal: my safe return in exchange for General Iroh's retreat from the wall?"

Jet shrugs. "I don't know for sure. Maybe they considered it, but the story goes, that once you and your entire unit were presumed dead, General Iroh left the battlefield, undone by his grief. So at that point, it wouldn't have mattered if they gave you up or not. Others stepped up to take his place, but they struggled to get a foothold and ultimately failed to gain any ground.

"Since then, the war's retreated from the walls quite a bit, letting Ba Sing Se get a bit of a breather. Now Fire Lord Ozai's concentrating on milking the colonies, developing new weaponry, shoring up for the next wave, all the while sending refugees streaming towards the city, including me."

Lu Ten hums in thought. "Well, I'll have to take your word for it," he says finally. "There's so much that doesn't make sense, but… yours is one explanation for it all."

 _Real convincing_. Jet's stomach growls at a lull in his tinkering, and his fingers pause over the strings.

"This won't do," he decides, frowning at the bowl, whose contents haven't changed over the past hour. "Where's Miao?"

"Sleeping in my pack." Jet retrieves the napping cat from his pack off to the side, receiving no shortage of scratches and yowls for his troubles.

"Time to work for your dinner, Miao," Lu Ten tells the cat solemnly.

Miao turns out to be a huge draw for the crowds. She's unusually drawn to the music (or just to Lu Ten?), trying to bat at the lute and its strings. Laughing, he holds it up over his head, still plucking out a tune. This only encourages Miao to climb onto his head in pursuit.

Jet strings up a little ball of leather bait and some scattered hog-chicken feathers and dangles it on the end of a long stick. It bounces and dances in an alluring manner that is impossible for Miao to ignore. The cat is torn between two equally attractive outcomes: exciting novel music or exciting novel hunting target? A dilemma to stump all of felinekind, to be sure. She bounds to and fro between Lu Ten's lap and Jet's toy, oscillating to no end.

They're in a small town, the kind that straddles the line between tight-fisted apathy in Ba Sing Se and dearth of wealth though not compassion in many of the homelier villages they've passed through. Slowly, they start to earn their keep, and over the rest of the day, coins trickle in: from children charmed by the dancing kitten, an old man who walks away chuckling about "kids these days", a young woman with eyes only for Lu Ten's graceful fingers and glowing cheeks flushed bright from his song and the chill.

 _Uh…what? Why am I thinking about that at all?_ He shakes his head briefly, trying to clear it of such irrelevant images, but to little avail.

* * *

 **MUSHI**

"You used to fight with swords," Jet says as they huddle on someone's back stoop later that evening—a blacksmith's refinery, judging by the clanging hammering within and the slight heat escaping the windows and chasing the chill away from them.

"Hm…?" He doesn't quite register Jet's meaning until the boy irritably gestures at the butterfly swords fastened at his belt. "You carried dual broadswords when I first met you. The stories said you fought with them in battle, though you were equally proficient in firebending."

Mushi examines his hands, free of the calluses proudly displayed by those who practice the way of the sword. All he's got are a few nicks and cuts from vegetable knives and a small patch on the left hand, slightly lighter than the surrounding skin, from when his right arm gave out and spilled boiling water everywhere.

"I don't understand. You keep telling these stories, but I've never heard any of them before. How do I know you're not making them up?"

"Idiot," Jet says, reproof in his voice, just seconds away from thumping Mushi on the forehead in frustration. "You were in Ba Sing Se with your head buried in a teapot all these years. _Of course_ no one would have told these stories in that city of walls and secrets." He sounds too happy to be rid of that place.

"But you said there were songs, all these odes and ballads of the Azure Dragon… I haven't heard any of those since we left the city either."

Jet unhooks his swords and sights one finger along the dull edge of one blade. It's a versatile weapon, the hilt guards broad and sturdy enough to pack a punch; the ends beyond the hilts taper into sharp points easy to jab into unsuspecting assailant sneaking up from behind.

"Here. Try these."

"Uh, what?" Mushi is really out of his depth here.

"Try them out. They're not broadswords, but the theory is the same. Maybe you'll remember something."

Mushi takes the swords and looks at Jet, confusion plain in his expression. "Go on."

He steps out into the open space, swords limp at his sides. Miao sulks at the periphery, having been dumped out of Mushi's lap. He feels a bit foolish, not knowing what to do. He draws on some recollections of Jet's postures and attempts a form or two, clumsily striking at an imaginary target.

"Ugh, don't swing your back hand in a huge arc!" Jet coaches. "You'll knock them together and get tangled up if you do. Keep it low, _low."_

"Keep your voice down!" Mushi misses his target and accidentally hooks the circumference of a log of firewood standing upright by the wall. Predictably, the whole pile comes crashing down, and now they're in trouble.

They flee amid shouts of "Burglars! Thieves!", Jet scooping up Miao as they go, Mushi running clumsily with his swords. Seriously, who thought this was a good idea? Oh right, Jet the insufferable I-know-everything-about-you wunderkind, trying to spark his memory with swords that are as useful to him as a teapot without a handle.

Once they're safely ensconced in an abandoned shed on the outskirts of town ("probably haunted, but I'll take the dead trying to kill us over the living," Jet compromises), Mushi hands the swords back.

"So you've lost your sword forms, too," Jet laments. "I can't believe you forgot everything except how to brew tea and play lute. Talk about useless."

Mushi prickles at that. " _Not_ useless. My music got you your dinner, didn't it? And Miao helped too." At his feet, Miao purrs in agreement.

"Psh, I could have snatched any gold-fingered merchant's purse in two minutes flat, and we wouldn't have had to go to all that trouble."

" _No,"_ Mushi says, his expression severe. "Stealing is not on the table here."

"Well of course it's not, it's _under_ the table…" he trails off, quailing before another stern look from Mushi. "Oh, fine. Good to know you've at least retained your morals. To answer your earlier question, you've never heard any ballads about yourself out here because it's been a while since you "died." People are forgetting you already." He sounds a little taunting, if only out of frustration at Mushi's lack of retention of anything from his past.

" _You_ haven't forgotten me.

* * *

 **JET**

 _How could I?_

"I can sing one of the songs for you but be warned. I haven't exactly got a voice of gold."

Lu Ten teases him by protectively covering Miao's ears instead of his own, a curious smile resting on his lips, and Jet nearly forgets how the song goes. The verses had never mentioned anything about the Azure Dragon's golden smile and dashing good looks, gods spare him.

 _Stupid. Stupid, no, nonono we're not doing this again—_

His voice starts out small, unsure, missing pitches and screwing up cadences, but Lu Ten looks on, enthralled all the same, and the song he'd heard as a child returns to him, never forgotten. The third verse rolls around, and he shapes the words confidently on his tongue, entreating them to spark some long-lost memories.

A peaceful night of a hundred years past

The eve of unfathomable change

The sound of cannon fire splits the night

Fall upon your own sword, inaction repaid

How many years still ring with cannon fire?

How many years, and how many years?

Dragon, Azure Dragon, brighten your eyes

Forevermore, brighten your eyes

 _How many years still ring with cannon fire?_ He can count them on both hands—eight years since he lost his home and family. Eight years since the pillage of the Rough Rhinos, since Lu Ten saved his life and then drifted out of it… only for them to be thrown together once more.

He doesn't know what makes him feel so certain that Lu Ten's memories are even recoverable. He watches as Lu Ten closes his bright eyes and tucks himself under a thin blanket, the cat snuggling so close to his face that Jet's not sure he can even breathe through all that fur. On some level, this Mushi and that Lu Ten are irreconcilable, as different as the heavens and the earth, and yet similar, two sides of the same coin.

It's fate, he decides. His village, after all, stood just inland from the Sea of Fate, not far from here. Maybe if they go back to the place where it all began, Lu Ten will remember.

He has to.

* * *

 **A/N:** archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/39583312: the origin of the ballad of the Azure Dragon, and what it means to live among the people.


	8. AZULA: Woman, Unveiled

_19 February_

 **HARU**

"Stop," Azula announces abruptly. "We need to stop, right now."

Haru looks around, then behind himself at Azula. There's nothing noteworthy to indicate the need for a stop. They've just crossed a modest river, probably a tributary of the greater Yonghe River as they start to pass south of a great mountain range. Their ostrich-horse doesn't need watering, and they had breakfast three hours ago. "Why are we stopping?"

"Because I said so," she says, irritable and brief.

"Fine." He senses it'll be easier to just let her do as she pleases, so he reigns in the ostrich-horse. Azula slips off, wincing slightly as she hits the ground.

"I'm going over there." She points towards a bend in the river, beyond which stand the beginnings of a sparse wood, its trees thin and their foliage paltry, even as spring starts to bud green. "You stay here."

"Sure."

Azula does her business, and they resume travel relatively quickly. Haru thinks that's the end of that for a good long while until Azula demands they stop again two hours later, at another bend in what's probably the same river, just farther along, according to their map.

"Again?"

"Yes," she says tersely, offering no explanation.

"Okay then…"

He frowns after her as she trudges off, her gait slightly wobbly, but that's normal for someone who's not used to riding for hours on end. Ostrich-horses, while fast, aren't the most comfortable steeds.

He quirks a querying eyebrow at her after she comes back, but she pretends not to see. Alright, if that's how she wants it to be.

The third time, he doesn't bother batting an eyelid at her bizarre behavior, instead taking the opportunity to wrangle a few bites of desiccated bread. It's past midday, and he supposes they can break for some food.

Azula doesn't return for quite some time, half an hour, perhaps, by which time he's more than done eating, emptying his bladder, rechecking the state of their supplies, petting their beast of burden (he hasn't decided on a name yet, still toying with the sound of 'Beaky'), and doing whatever he can to pass the time without his odd companion around. When she finally comes back, she heads straight to the ostrich-horse, to all appearances ready to get back on the road.

"You look kind of pale," he observes. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," she grits out. "Let's go already."

"Yes, yes, let's not forget who's been making all these pit stops and losing us time," he reminds her, waving the map at her even as she turns her back, stepping into the stirrups. "We might not make it to the nearest village at this rate unless you want to ride 'til midnight."

He swings himself up the saddle to sit in front of her and is surprised to feel her practically collapse against his back. Usually he has to nag her to hold onto his waist so she won't fall off once they get moving.

"Uh… are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes," she says faintly, not without some bite. "Stop wasting time, let's go."

 _Yeesh, okay. Sorry for bothering._ He knees their steed into motion as they head back towards the road. "You haven't drunk any water since breakfast, so how is it you keep needing to go every couple of hours? You haven't eaten anything, either."

In response, she leans over the side, digging into their packs (really not advisable, considering how close she is to tipping right out of the saddle), and pulls out a (similarly desiccated) roll of bread, from which she takes a single bite. She shows it to him grimly. "I've eaten, now please shut up."

"…"

This goes on for the rest of the day. True to his reckoning, nightfall finds them still twelve miles short of… "Malachite Quarry." Haru squints at the map. "Weird name. Whatever, this looks like the place to stop." He looks around. "Peaceful little pond, maybe some fishing to do…" He notes that the ice has melted; that's always a good sign. "Well, get whatever it is out of your system, and we can start over tomorrow morning."

"You're out of luck. I won't be getting this out of my system for the next three days at least."

He looks over at Azula. It's the most she's said all afternoon, yet he's still none the wiser as to what's ticking her off. "Seriously, what's up with you?" She really does look like she's about to collapse.

"I'm on my period," she finally says without any inflection, as if her tonelessness will make this more bearable. "I have to stop every few hours to exchange my blood-soaked rags for fresh ones, and because I have a finite amount of rags, I have to rinse and boil the used ones regularly or I will be bleeding everywhere. Do you understand?"

… _well, that makes a lot more sense now._ He can't believe he didn't realize earlier. "Right. Yes… of course," he says awkwardly. "Sorry about that."

* * *

 **AZULA**

"How come I've never noticed before?" Haru asks, like the cheerfully non-menstruating man that he is.

"Last month we were still on the ship, and you were below decks. Back home, I had a decent three meals a day, access to perfumed baths and unlimited sanitary cloths, maids to give me massages, distractions in the form of books, firebending, not to mention _plotting how to get a leg over my murderous father._ Now I ride an ostrich-horse thirteen hours a day while losing half my blood volume from between my legs—oh shut up, _obviously_ less than half but still not an insignificant amount." She interrupts her own tirade upon seeing him open his mouth to correct her. "All because my body feels the need to prove, month after month, that I have a viable uterus even though I've no intention of using it."

"Okay, I get the point," he says hastily, not wanting to hear more about her uterus. Men are stupidly squeamish about these things. "But I mean… does it really hurt that much?"

Azula rolls her gaze away from him, too tired to even pick her head up from her pillow, and scowls at the heavenly vault above. As soon as they decided to stop for the evening, she'd pitched herself down in her bedroll for an early night, but Haru is obstructing that plan with his chatter. "Yes, it does. Absurdly so for something that happens every single, goddamn month."

He frowns, skeptical. "How can you stand it if it's this bad every month?"

"As you can see," she gestures down her supine body, "I don't. I lie here and try to ignore idiotic, unsympathetic men, most of whom will never have to experience this level of pain on a regular basis."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to downplay how much you're suffering now," he mutters. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

Beyond her field of vision, she hears him shuffling around, attending to the various sundry tasks that arise in the course of an extended road trip (that she didn't know existed and certainly isn't interested in). The ostrich-horse whinnies as he undoes its saddle and bridle, brushing out its long mane and inspecting its talons for broken nails and infections. Only then does he return to her vicinity to settle down for the night.

"Hungry?"

She shakes her head, too nauseated to eat anything. He clucks in concern but knows better than to argue—just as well. She needs _something_ in her life not to be contrary and impossible to control at the moment.

* * *

 **HARU**

"Will it help if I distract you by talking?"

She sighs, supremely put-upon. "Maybe? I'm just going to pretend you don't exist, like I said."

"Mm, it's worth a try. Anything in particular you want me to talk about while you pretend I don't exist?"

All he receives is a shrug in return, but then: "Tell me about the people back home. Who else will miss you, besides your parents?"

He pauses, strangely touched by her desire to know more about him. Who would have thought?

"Well…" he begins. For so long, he's tried to avoid thinking about this, not wanting to stir up his homesickness, and the memories seem sticky, resistant to being dragged up from the bottom of the pot. "Last I heard, Xiao Kai and Xiao Ge, my first cousins, were still alive. Many are gone now."

He chances a glance at Azula; the only indication that she's listening is a puzzled furrow between her closed eyes. "You have to understand: the coal mine was our village's lifeblood. Before the Fire Nation arrived, we only ever mined enough to subsist—what's the point of working lethal hours to hoard coal and money that we don't need? But the Fire Nation's need was insatiable. They pressed into service every able-bodied man between the ages of fifteen and sixty.

"Loads of elderly we lost to physical exhaustion and consumption from the coal dust. The younger ones mostly in accidents—they needed lightweight, strong bodies with good eyesight to evaluate unplumbed mineshafts; those were also the most prone to collapse." He closes his eyes in brief remembrance of his friends Zehao, Tianyu, Jianci, lots more names he can't even elaborate right now.

"Still, some of my friends were lucky enough to avoid the mines. Ah Ying, the tanner's daughter—she'd always give me her extra shrimp and cilantro when we ate lunch together at the noodle stand. Mm… there was Na-Na, the girl who sold dumplings outside my parents' store every morning when we were kids."

He chances upon a distant memory that might pique Azula's interest. "I was ten, playing with friends around the huge rainwater vat near my house. That summer was unusually wet, and the water was deep. Na-Na was the most adventurous among us, and she insisted on climbing to the rim. Of course, she fell in.

"Most of us couldn't swim, at least not well enough to rescue her from a tank ten feet deep with vertical sides. Everyone ran, as people do when they're afraid of liability. But I had to do something. If I jumped in, I'd probably drown too. I figured out that it would be easier to just get rid of the water than to pull her from its depths. So I used my then-rudimentary earthbending to punch a hole in the stone wall of the tank. There wasn't time to run for help, and the walls were at least a foot thick, but I kept at it until I broke through. The water came gushing out, and with it, Na-Na. I was able to save her just in time."

"Thus you realized that you were destined to be together forever," Azula says sarcastically. "But years later, the star-crossed lovers were separated, how tragic."

"Well… no. Who's telling the story, anyways?" he denies, somewhat miffed. "I was ten and she was twelve. We were good friends, and while the incident strengthened our friendship, it didn't precipitate any betrothals."

Azula shifts her hips uncomfortably under the blanket, the only sign that she's still in pain. Haru sighs and gets up. There's always a solution to be found; he just has to think.

"What are you doing?" she asks, not opening her eyes.

"You'll see." He treks over to the pond by which they'd set up camp, and in its shallows he finds six smooth, flattish rocks, each about half the size of his palm. He brings them back to the campfire and drops them into the heart of the flames, watching them sizzle and steam in its heat.

He looks over at Azula, still practically comatose except for a grimace every now and then as the cramps strike. Her fingers are tightly interlaced over her stomach, too tight to truly be relaxed.

"Did you actually want to marry Na-Na or any other girl, later on?"

"Er…" He rummages through their supplies, looking for what he needs. "No, now that I think about it. I mean, I knew it would happen one day. There weren't a lot of suitable girls my age, and our parents had known each other since they were children. Most people don't want to marry their children off to families they don't know unless there's something to be gained, financially or politically."

He comes upon the burlap sack of rice, a few handfuls left at the bottom, and empties it into the pot, thinking he may as well get a head start on breakfast tomorrow morning. He levitates the hot stones out of the fire and lets them drop into the sack, nearly scalding himself.

"You people don't get out much, do you? Always marrying your next-door neighbors."

She's not _wrong_ , but…"It's not like you would have had much choice either," he counters. "Though for the opposite reason. A princess like you could never marry a commoner, right?"

"Hmph." She knows he's got her there. "I suppose I eventually would have had to marry the son of some army bigshot or some obsequious old councilor's pathetic offspring."

The stones are too hot; they'll burn, so Haru steals the saddle blanket from their ostrich-horse, wrapping it several times around the sack, now repurposed into a heating pad. She opens her eyes, querulous gaze landing on him. "What's that?"

With careful delicacy, he lays it on her stomach over the blanket, still wary of burning her. "A hot pad. It might help with the pain."

She stares at it, then at him for the span of a breath before flipping onto her stomach, dislodging the sack.

"Hey!" He gathers it up before the stones come loose.

"Put it on my back," she says, words somewhat muffled by her face resting on her folded arms. "Sometimes lying on my stomach helps squash the pain down. Put it on my back and I'll feel the warmth."

Hm, it's worth a try. He hefts the sack in his hands, distributing the stones evenly and laying it out across the small of her back this time, assiduously ignoring the curve of her waist.

"Better?"

"Mm." She keeps her chin tucked low, so he barely hears it when she murmurs, "Thank you."

It sounds like she doesn't want him to hear, so he smiles and says nothing.

* * *

 **AZULA**

She pretends she is asleep, facing away from him, not wanting her expression or her voice to give away this weird wobbly feeling. Gods, periods are loathsome—the pain she can deal with, but these stupid… _urges_ and _emotions._ Who in creation decided those would be a good idea to foist on a woman when she's already at her most vulnerable?

The stones lose their heat after fifteen minutes, and Haru gingerly lifts them from her back. The pain has faded to a dull ache, almost possible to ignore. She hears him dump out the rocks, followed by the rattle of more stones, a pained hiss under his breath, and then the hot pad on her back is replaced, heated anew.

She feels that same stupid wave of emotion roiling over her, unwelcome. Who in her life has ever cared this way for her, with a heart so delicately dedicated to her comfort? Her mother was always remote and poised, her maids idiotic and hardly warm despite all their bowing and scraping. Her father and brother have even less to be spoken of, overbearing expectations and nauseating jealousy respectively overwhelming any familial affection.

If Haru could see her, he'd probably think she's hysterical. This is normal for… for average people like him, who go through life uncaring about the rise and fall of empires, who marry their childhood best friends and never leave their hometowns, who know sufficiency in their simple lives and loves and existence.

She must be doing a convincing job of feigning sleep, because he doesn't come back to replace the hot pad again—thank heavens, she doesn't think she could deal with more of this flood. She hears him retrieve his sleep roll, pitching it out a respectable distance behind her. Various rustling noises, and then peaceful silence as he enters the realm of sleep.

This is a problem.

* * *

 _6 March. Gaoling._

 **KATARA**

"I can't accept this offer," Lao says with finality.

" _Why_ not?" Toph demands. "You have everything to gain and nothing to lose!"

Lao chuckles. "Nothing to lose? On the contrary…"

They'd arrived in Gaoling with the intention of recruiting the Beifong patriarch into supporting the resistance in Ba Sing Se. Before the comet arrives, the White Lotus's armies need to be equipped, nonbenders included, and most sources elsewhere in the Earth Kingdom are too heavily festooned with Fire Nation guards. Lao's Earthen Fire Refinery would be the perfect supplier of several tons of ore that they will need to arm their forces.

Unlike many of the towns Katara's passed through, Gaoling is ripe with opulence, and Toph's home exemplifies that. Her father sneers down at them from a tall chair, throne-like in the flair of the winged boars carved into its arms. Katara shifts, ill at ease, as the toe of her shoe snags on the silk tassel of a rug. The butler, whose job it seems to be only to stand slightly hunched at the door while judging his household's guests, sniffs in disdain.

"If Gaoling is still standing after the war is over, the White Lotus will supply you with ranks of skilled benders, enough to triple your current production rates and profits," Toph argues. "What's not to like?"

"And to allay your fears about being looted midway there, the Southern Water Tribe will send its ships as an escort. There's nothing to worry about in that aspect," Sokka reassures.

"Forgive me if I have less than the utmost faith in the ability of a ragtag band of hunters and traders to fend off a fully armed Fire Nation warship," Lao says snidely. "I have no guarantee that my shipments will reach Ba Sing Se safely. And then there is the matter of compensation. This White Lotus corporation—" here he gives a loud scoff indicating his skepticism about the White Lotus's credibility as a business partner— "says they will pay in installments upon delivery, but what should happen if they suffer an utter defeat in the final battle? I'll tell you what: they'll default on their payment, and I'll be thousands of ingots in the red as a result! My business would never recover."

It's incredible how severely he's missing the point. "You _will_ be thousands in the red, but because the Fire Nation will have painted the sky in red after Sozin's comet liquefies the Earth Kingdom, Ba Sing Se and Gaoling included!" Sokka seems ready to grab Lao by the scruff of his collar and give him a good shaking, as if that will settle his brain into compliance.

"Pah! The Fire Nation will never come here." Lao shakes his head, stable in the notion that the enemy will not touch his town just because it hasn't happened yet. "I cannot put my stamp of approval on such a risky investment, no matter if it's endorsed by some 'Grand Lotus.'" He brandishes the contract General Iroh had sent with them, wisely anticipating Lao's predilection for turning his nose up at anything that isn't written in business legalese. "Iroh—isn't he the disgraced general of the Fire Nation? All the more reason not to strike a deal. You can't trust the word of a turncoat like him."

"I thought you'd at least take _my_ word if not his," Toph says, arms crossed, tense with barely repressed fury at her father's obstinacy.

"Hmph." Lao lays the paper down on the table. "I've clearly taught you nothing, or rather, your mother failed in that aspect. A woman's duty is first to her father, then to her husband, and finally to her son. You are young, Toph, but you should at least know this. And yet you defied me by running away with the Avatar. Now you come back and expect me to honor a nonsensical agreement that doesn't benefit me in any way."

Katara hasn't said anything so far. From what Toph's told them of her father, she could have guessed this outcome, but they had to try.

Suddenly, she notices a stirring through the curtains that divide this room from the next, passing behind Lao's chair. Even as Sokka and Toph reengage Lao in avid and progressively less diplomatic argument, Katara meets the eyes of a pale, delicate-featured woman through a gap in the silks. This can be none other than Toph's mother.

She is poised and collected, observing the conflict between father and daughter as if she is uninvolved. But when she meets Katara's eyes, her gaze is fiercely intense and commanding as she mouths, _Wait outside._ Then she slips away from the curtains and presumably out of the room, all the while giving Lao no hint that she was there.

Puzzled, Katara turns back to the discussion at hand. "Toph, Sokka, don't bother. We'll never win him over, and we've got more important business to take care of in town," she says, taking care not to give Lao even the honor of being addressed. "Let's not waste any more time here."

They've reached the outermost gate by the time she catches up to them.

"Stop!"

It is Katara's understanding that noblewomen of the Earth Kingdom do not under any circumstances _run,_ Toph being the obvious exception. Yet here she is, the madam of the illustrious Beifong household, hitching up her skirts and rushing after them on tiny feet, clutching a furled scroll in one hand, hair ornaments swinging dangerously loose from her bun.

"Wait," she says, out of breath. "You don't have to go away emptyhanded. As co-owner of the Earthen Fire Refinery, I hereby promise one hundred percent of the proceeds from my half to the Order of the White Lotus. You have my word."

"Poppy!" Lao has arrived, looking aghast at her declaration. "You… you can't!"

"I can, and I will," she says, holding up the scroll with the deadly, self-possessed air of one who anticipates no counterarguments. "You signed my prenuptial contract fifteen years ago, and it hasn't been amended since. Therefore I am still half-owner of the Beifong refinery. And before you think about seizing back control, might I remind you that your chief accountants, operations managers, floor overseers, shipment managers, and head of security all come from _my_ side of the family?"

She smiles winningly as he gapes in dismay. Katara wonders if Lao would have married her if she'd worn that smile on her wedding day. "Don't presume to overstep your limits, husband. The Wu clan is just as powerful as the Beifongs. I never interfered before because I've had no reason to, but your own daughter has just told you how direly she needs your support. If you won't help her, I will. My people will listen to me, and your business will be irretrievably crippled when they leave, taking half of its assets with them. Unless you'd like to pledge your half as well?"

Bartering with the enemy for her child's sake: now there's a quality Katara can appreciate in a mother. Fortunately for Poppy Beifong, it seems her enemy will capitulate. Lao bows his head gravely.

"Very well, dear. I accept."

KKK

"My mother was widowed before I married Lao. She was the one who inserted the stipulations into my marriage contract. It was a fairly steep bride price, but my family is distinguished enough to make such demands without question," Poppy tells them over dinner that night.

Lao had excused himself from joining them ("Probably gone out to drown his sorrows in drink," Poppy dismisses. "As long as he's not gambling away what's left of his financial prospects"), so it's just her, Toph, Sokka, and Katara. Toph sits at her mother's right hand, elbows on the table, cheek nestled in one hand as she spoons through a bowl of clamshells, searching for any with the chewy flesh remaining. It's the most relaxed she's been since returning to the house where she grew up.

"Mother didn't want me to be left destitute in the event that Lao divorced me, so I had to have some legal recourse. He agreed to every clause, including the ones that granted my brothers and cousins special positions within his family business. They've effectively taken over the day-to-day operations, so it's them I'll be speaking to about fulfilling the terms of your contract, not Lao. He never dreamed I'd actually turn the tables on him to my advantage."

"Wow." Sokka sounds impressed; whether that's due to Poppy's stoic conviction or the steaming plate of drunken crab that a servant just set down in front of them, is yet to be surmised. "That's…"

"Practically unheard of in the South Pole," Katara finishes for him, reaching for a crab. She carefully cracks one leg open, poking the soft meat out. "Of course, it's different there. Everything is communal within the tribe, so two newlyweds wouldn't go in expecting to split their livelihood between them."

"It's not exactly common practice here, either," Poppy demurs. "As I said, my mother was trying to protect me. After you left, Toph, it occurred to me that I'd been trying to protect you from all the wrong things, and I'm sorry for that, sorry for all the constraints I laid on you growing up. You must have felt so ill at ease in your own home."

"Well, I won't argue with _that,"_ Toph says flippantly, pushing her bowl away, her search for more clams fruitless. "You never believed me when I told you how good I was at earthbending, but now you know: I don't need protecting from anything."

There's a faint frown stretching Poppy's lips, their creases perfectly daubed with rouge that doesn't seem to come off when she eats. She looks a little sad at how hollow her daughter's words ring in the ears of anyone but herself. Katara cracks open another crab leg and drops it on Toph's plate. Poppy watches as her daughter accepts it without complaint, scooping out the meat with ease and relishing its savory delight.

There is a difference between grudgingly accepting smothering protection and gladly welcoming help from good friends who expect nothing in return. She is thankful that they at least can provide for Toph where she failed.

* * *

 _12 March_

 **HARU**

"Let's go to the Misty Palms Oasis, he said—it'll be fun, and refreshing, and _warm_ , he said." Azula does her best imitation of Haru's cheerful, let's-not-be-a-stick-in-the-mud pep-talk voice (hint: it sounds nothing like him). "Care to chime in _now_?"

"It's not that bad," he says placatingly. "It's been maybe a bit oversold to me by traveling merchants back home, but it's not a dive."

He scratches his head, his words running hollow as they look around at the grimy mud huts scattering the settlement. The Misty Palms Oasis is surrounded by a wall encompassing no more than five acres or so. There are a number of boat-like vehicles parked outside, and Haru is drawn to their strange design. Their wooden hulls are abutted by long runners that taper to a slight curl in front, with a pair of large canvas sails attached to the body, though he's not sure what purpose these serve. Most stand a little higher than his head, but one in particular dwarfs all the others, its sails and body dyed a lovely indigo, the glossy lacquer making everyone else's look quite plain.

At the center of the oasis is the famed not-so-pristine ice spring, maintained by spirit magic or so it's claimed. It looks too melty to live up to its name. "One thing you can't deny: it's definitely warm here."

"Yes, practically sweltering," she retorts. She makes a beeline for what seems to be a tavern of sorts, travelers coming in and out. "Let's get inside before we evaporate on the spot from this heat."

Following one step behind Azula, Haru sees the catastrophe coming just before it unfolds. She pushes aside the beaded curtain in the doorway, a careless flick that sends half the strands recoiling in her face and her hair, where they ensnare themselves in an almost sentient fashion in her blue peony hairpin.

"Oh, for spirits' sake," she swears, twisting her head around, further entangling herself. "Get this off of me!"

"Here, stay still—" Haru tries to intervene before any more damage is done, but he speaks too soon.

The next few seconds are a blur of reflexes as a flailing Azula manages to bump into a customer carrying a transparent bowl of some dark liquid that is _probably too expensive to spill like seriously we're not made of money here._ Haru sweeps one arm out, raising the clay floor into a gently sloping butte with a concavity that cushions the bowl before it hits the ground, not a single drop spilled, _phew._

With relief, he takes the shallow bowl, noting that it's made of ice. A slight whiff informs him that yes, its price is almost certainly as high as its alcoholic proof. "There's nothing wrong with crying over spilled liquor, but fortunately you won't have to," he says, handing it over.

"Thank you." A sonorous, rich voice, definitely female but deeper than expected, greets his ears, and he looks up… and up…. And up, into the eyes of a splendidly tall woman, at least a head taller than him, her features dark as midnight, lips the color of rusty cinnabar and full cheeks framed by tight braids drawn in neat rows across her scalp. Their ends are hidden by a shimmering dark headwrap sewn with silver chains of intricate, overlapping, crescent moon motifs: quite a statement.

She slashes a keen gaze over him and Azula, who's finally freed herself from the bead curtain. "Careful there, little princess. You'll make a public enemy of yourself, twisting your hair in knots like that."

They both freeze at the woman's words, relaxing only when she smirks and makes her imposing exit through the treacherous bead curtain _. Little princess_. The Azula he knows would be spitting in rage at the diminutive, but she looks more relieved that she hasn't just been outed as Princess Azula, Fire Nation's second most wanted after her brother.

It's a bit awkward stepping into the dark, musty tavern with its sloping, claustrophobic ceiling, everyone staring at them after Azula's dramatic entrance.

"Eyeballs back in your heads; what's there to gawk at?" she snaps at a couple of especially nosy patrons sitting at a table nearby. Their faces are completely covered in heavy wraps save for their eyes, which narrow in displeasure before turning back to their own business.

 _Public enemy indeed._

HHH

It's just past dusk but still too hot to be alive. After they've had something to eat, Haru doesn't feel like sleeping yet. Azula rejects his invitation to go explore the rest of the oasis, so he heads out alone, leaving her inside.

 _She's doing better, though_ , he thinks. _Much better than at the Eastern Air Temple._ Once again, no Zuko, and Azula didn't take it well.

 _Unlike at the Southern Air Temple, they do not split up to search. There is no consensus, but Haru remains at her side as they mutely walk among the innocent dead. He sees the change in the slope of her proud shoulders, the slowing of her steps, the way her toes scuff on the stairs, like she doesn't have the energy to lift her feet properly. Every breath is an effort and a wild guess: sometimes shaky and quick, each exhale coming faster on the heels of the previous; sometimes deep and full, trying to regain her composure._

 _She stops in the middle of a low, tunnel-like cavern through which a small stream slopes, pooling in multiple tiers. Haru watches warily, waiting for the stream to become a raging river. He can feel the pressure knitting her shoulders together, the same in his own, and yet it does not come. If anything, she deflates, her bearing normally so dynamic and excitable, now more akin to the stillness of a forest pool, unknowing of the wind's mutability, unchanged for better or for worse. She sinks to one knee, the other leg drawn up under her so that she rests on her haunches, head bowed, one hand trailing limply on the ground._

He crouches down, grasping a handful of sand and letting it trickle out of his closed fist. It's so unlike the carven stone of the air temple, labile and responsive, taking the shape of whatever container it happens to be in. It's like an entirely different element.

 _There's nothing here for them. She does not resist as he guides her away from the mountain, down towards level ground, silently following him back to the place where they moored. She's empty. No anger, no grief, no desperate clutching at straws for a solution. Just… nothing, and it frightens Haru more than anything._

 _They need a change, and they need one fast._

He can't be certain that the Misty Palms Oasis will have the information they need. All he knows about it is that it's the only place in a hundred miles to refill waterskins, so people from all over the southern and eastern Earth Kingdom flock there before heading off to more savory parts. If they're lucky, someone might have news about the Avatar's movements. They've been going about this wrong way, avoiding villages and staying away from prying eyes and wagging tongues. This could be their chance.

His footsteps drift throughout the settlement, bringing him to stand before the magnificent sand-sailer he'd seen earlier that day. It looks almost sinister, a looming figure in the darkness, the only light arising from the guttering torches by the tavern. So this is how the people of the desert get about. That still doesn't explain how it works. Is there a hidden fuel source, or is it all in catching the wind? Haru wanders closer to the contraption, standing between the long runners and reaching up to feel how durable the sailcloth is.

Instantly, he regrets it as he feels a firm hand over his mouth and a knife at his throat. _Uh-oh._

"Feeling a little light-fingered, aren't we, spirit-eyes?"

It's the deep, powerful voice of the woman from earlier, and wow, they really are off to a bad start. First Azula with her clumsiness, and now Haru's being mistaken for a thief.

Before he even has the presence of mind to start struggling against her grip and maybe get his throat slit in the process, she releases him, slamming him dizzyingly against the wall of the sandsailer.

"Er… no, actually," he says, finding his voice, though it is small and embarrassingly shaky, not at all confidence-inspiring. "I swear, I was just curious about this thing works, I've never seen anything like it. Please don't kill me."

"Curious, you say? Curious to see if you could run off with the great Tin-Hinan's sandsailer in the middle of the night, perhaps."

The woman laughs, with flippant ease spinning the knife around one-handed to drop blade-first into her sleeve, all the while focusing intently on him. He gulps nervously— _knife's sheathed now, probably a good sign, that is, death's no longer on the horizon?_

"Would you like to find out?"

 _Er…?_

HHH

Commence a crash course in sandbending.

Tin-Hinan sets a lit torch down, and Haru watches, fascinated, as insidious threads of sand slowly snake their way around its base to hold it vertical without her support _._ It turns out that the mechanism behind the sandsailers involves creating a vortex of sand that generates a rapid current from its funnel, filling the sail with air and propelling the craft forward. It sounds simple enough in theory, but Haru finds it less easy in practice. Tin-Hinan doesn't even let him onto her sandsailer yet, making him practice on the ground first.

"I've never taught anyone myself, least of all an outsider, so you'll have to get used to learning fast. I'm not famous for my patience, though _you_ must be, spirit-eyes."

He frowns, trying to concentrate on his sand vortex while simultaneously wrangling his thoughts.

"You have questions," she interprets correctly.

"Yes. Why—"

She holds up a finger. "I know what your questions entail, and I have answers. However, nothing can be gotten without a price, including answers. That is the way of the desert."

He's not sure what kind of an economy she's operating here, but surely questions as straightforward as his can be answered at no cost. "Then how about a question for a question—that's fair, isn't it?" He's gambling on her having enough interest in him to actually play this game, but evidence so far points in his favor. Why else would she offer to teach a stranger sandbending?

Under the rippling torchlight, she winks, a sharp, deliberate challenge and one that he will accept. Six months of whetting his wit against Azula's haven't been for nothing. He's bound to find a question she can't answer.

Once again, he whips the sand into a small spout that gyrates rapidly, gaining more volume with every rotation. As he practices the form, he poses his first question.

"Why don't you wear a veil? I've seen women like you in trading caravans passing through my home village, and they always cover their faces, at least in public."

Out of the corner of his eye, she tilts her head in intrigue, the silver pendants of her head covering tinkling low. That wasn't what she expected to hear, though she won't admit it.

Under cover of the desert night, she raises her face to the sky, as open to it as it is to her. "The women of our tribe do not wear veils; only the men do. It was set down by our ancestral queen many centuries ago, just one of many decrees that survive her. Women in our tribe serve as their clans' matriarchs, and they own the family's tents in the communes where we reside.

"A woman may divorce her husband for any reason, as I have had occasion to do—twice—, and he is the one who must leave and return to his own family's tent, taking nothing with him. I cannot imagine a world where it is any different, where women are unable to seek their own freedoms and pleasures, but I have heard that it is not so outside, where you are from."

"Huh." The idea is so foreign to him, but Tin-Hinan herself seems to embody the privileges the women of her tribe enjoy.

She poses her own question. "What do _you_ seek out here in the desert, spirit-eyes? Surely not another wife—I'm afraid I can't help you there."

"A way to find the Avatar and defeat the Fire Lord." He runs a finger down the rough grain of the planks, nearly getting a splinter under his nails. "I don't suppose you'd know how?"

She laughs. "Is that your second question?"

He considers it. "Yes," he decides. They may as well seek help from this queen of the desert, though he cannot see where her help may lead, if anywhere.

"Then I will have to disappoint you. I have never taken any interest in these things you desire to accomplish. What for? What is the Avatar to me? What is the Fire Lord to me?"

He looks at her askance, bemused at her nonchalance. "One to defeat the other, no less. What do _you_ mean to accomplish by not caring?"

"The Fire Nation will never overrun the desert," she says confidently. "We have fire to match theirs. They will burn to a crisp in the desert that is no more merciful than they are, and we will survive."

"I wouldn't be so sure." The day is only months away now, when the sky will run red with blood and fire.

At length, the moon rises to the peak of the sky, and Tin-Hinan finally allows him to board her sandsailer. She shows him a number of contraptions used to steer, change directions, and stabilize its path in addition to the sail. First, she unties the sailcloths to let him get a feel for bending the sand this far up without fanning the sails into motion yet. Used to the form now, he fans the sand into a broad spiral, indolent curls slowly gaining momentum between the runners.

"I noticed back when you bent the earth in the tavern," Tin-Hinan remarks approvingly. "Your earthbending is particularly fluid and smooth, not at all like many of the rigid, self-styled masters of the art that I've seen."

"…thank you." He's surprised that she even had the facility to notice.

"Sand is the most fluid of all earth materials," she explains, refastening the sails, preparing to embark. "Clay, stone, coal, diamond—all varying degrees of durability and integrity, unlike sand, which knows no shape or lasting form. Look your fill at every sand dune in the desert, for tomorrow a new one shall stand in its place."

She refastens the sails, preparing them for departure. "If you truly seek to defeat the Fire Lord, there is a place deep within the desert where you may find the answers you need. But sand shifts with the wind, is shaped by water. You must be as capricious and versatile as the dunes around you, for they will do nothing to guide your path."

* * *

 **AZULA**

"I thought you requested a room for two."

The room before them is as large as a supply closet or a very paltry pantry, furnished with a single oil lamp set on the windowsill, a rickety chair and one (1) narrow bed.

"I think they assumed we were newly married," Haru says sheepishly.

"What about us suggests that we're newlyweds?" Azula demands.

"A man and a woman, clearly unrelated but friendly with each other and of a marriageable age, what conclusion do you expect people to draw besides innocent honeymooners? Don't worry, I'll sleep on the floor."

Azula surveys the dusty, unswept floor and decides that's for the best. "Very gallant of you, thank you."

"Because the bed probably has bed bugs," he explains, giving her pause.

She walks over to the window and lights the lamp, casting the room in cool blue. "I'll take my chances."

AAA

 _She is back in the throne room, trembling amid the wreckage of the throne, her father a dark shadow advancing on her. His silhouette is inscrutable, the fire at his back obscuring his features. Lightning tingles between his fingertips, and she is frozen, unable to move, to defend herself, to flee—where to? There is nowhere to hide. He will find her._ He will find her.

 _"I should have banished you and retained Zuko." Fire Lord Ozai's voice is cast of steel and loathing, looking down at her like a toad would regard a fly with broken wings. "Talent can be trained, skill can be nurtured, but resilience, drive, determination, cannot be taught. You scorned your brother for his slowness, but you yourself are lacking in these qualities. Even if you were the Avatar, you would be_ worthless _."_

 _His judgment delivered, he ignites the ceiling in a web-like splinter of lightning, pieces of décor crashing down around them. His hand descends, the lightning bolt from his fingertips pointing closer and ever closer straight at her, and all is chaotic, brilliant oblivion—_

"No!"

She sits up, heart pounding in the darkness, the only illumination from a meager lamp on the verge of flickering out. The blanket pools around her waist, and she remembers that she is in a grimy little inn on the edge of the Si Wong Desert, across the sea from the Eastern Air Temple where they failed to find Zuko. Again.

"What's wrong?" Haru murmurs blearily from the floor, having been woken by her outburst.

"Nothing," she mutters, glancing away. "Go back to sleep."

"Nightmare?"

She can't deny that she's breathing harder than can be explained upon waking, and even as she tries to calm the tides of her breath, he scoots over and peers more closely at her. The lamp from the window behind him burns with a gentle yellow flame, long since cooled from its initial lighting. "What was it about?"

She lies back down, frowning at the ceiling. "My father. That day when he told me that Zuko was the Avatar, that I was essentially the worthless twin out of the two of us, when for so many years, it had been just the opposite."

"That's got to be pretty jarring, considering how you grew up."

"Hm." She crosses her arms behind her head. "I should have seen Zuko for what he was: stronger than me in the ways that mattered. Our father pushed him down time and time again, always lauding me over him to the point of spoiling me, but he never gave up. He kept training, he stood his ground at the war council, he got himself banished but even then, he regathered his strength as the Avatar. As for me… you saw how it was when I couldn't earthbend." She recalls that horrific moment of collapse, when smoke curled from her lungs and filled the room with toxic grief. Haru was there; he knows what weakness underlies her foundation.

Haru makes an equivocal noise, shaking his head. The shadows cast by the lone flame ripple across his face, but they're not at all threatening like the contours of her father's face in her dream. "You're not weak either, Azula. It may have taken you longer than you would have liked, but look at you now. You're free from him. He has no say in what you do or what constitutes your failure."

"Yet here I am failing anew, hunting the Avatar without a clue to go on. We've been to two air temples and found nothing. Even if we visit the other two, who knows? Maybe he'll have left long before we arrive. Even if we do find him," she continues in the same breath, inspired by her grim nightmare, "I doubt he'll accept my help. Historically, I've been something of a thorn in his side."

Their childhood was fraught with conflict, usually instigated by Azula: starting out small with stealing Zuko's possessions, ridiculing his interest in swords and knives, terrifying his protective instinct with a burning apple on Mai's head ( _gods, what was I thinking_ ), and things that only now does she see cut him deeper than intended. Scorning Lu Ten, his achievements in battle and his tragic death. Telling Zuko their father was going to kill him, as if she were an accomplice—naturally he would come to associate her with their mother's disappearance and resent her role therein. And of course, the most egregious crime on the list: dragging him into the war council, resulting in his shameful Agni Kai and banishment, to her erstwhile benefit.

Most of it wasn't her intention. She never imagined he would derive such pain from these things that spiraled out of her control, gouging an irreducible chasm in their relationship.

"If he doesn't trust you, then you've got to do something to make him trust you," Haru declares, as if it were that easy. "Some gesture of good faith, you know, to relieve tensions between both sides."

"A gesture of good faith," she repeats dourly. "Whatever could that be?"

He shrugs. "No idea. Generally when someone's mad at you, you bring them a present, and if they like it, they'll forgive you. Or it'll buy you enough time while they're evaluating your present to recite reasons why they should forgive you, and by the end they might be convinced."

She snorts. "You sound like you're familiar with the matter."

"There _were_ a couple times, when we were kids, where I said something dumb to Na-Na, like, her hair looked funny that day or something, and of course she pitched a fit. But then I brought her a pretty flower and things were good with us again."

… _does he really think that's all it'll take for me to make good with Zuko again?_

But who's to say Zuko wouldn't react in kind? If she recalls correctly, he endorses that same naivete, looking at the world with kind eyes, always seeking to protect others, be it a Fire Nation regiment doomed to be used as bait, a few hapless turtle ducks, or even Azula herself. Countless times, he put himself between her and their mother's disapproval, assuming her wrongdoings until their mother gave up on disciplining either of them. It might not be so difficult to convince him of her good intentions after all.

That doesn't remedy the fact that she has nothing to contribute to his crusade besides her insatiable desire to see their father dead. What Zuko needs is a strategy. Right now he's a lone wolf, unaffiliated with any real power, mucking around in an air temple that's hardly a bastion of security. He has the heart of a captain, but he needs the acumen of a general.

 _I will be your general, Zuko,_ she thinks _. I will make you an Avatar worth remembering._

 _I just need to figure out how._

* * *

 **TIN-HINAN**

It is not a night for resting, she feels. The wind is too sparse, the air too heavy. She rises and drifts from her tent, thinking to greet the dawn instead of lying here, sleepless.

From afar, she watches two men arrive at the tavern on ostrich horseback. They are dressed in the garb of Fire Nation soldiers adapted for the desert clime: grey shades, loose pants and sleeves, missing their stifling helmets. The only insignia to identify them is the flame symbol cinched at their belts.

Soldiers at the oasis are common enough, and they rarely cause trouble. Like she told Spirit-Eyes, the desert has nothing to offer the Fire Nation but its indomitability and propensity to bleach their bones dry. She watches neutrally as they approach the board outside the tavern where public announcements are posted and pin up two sheets on official letterhead, front and center.

At a distance, they look like wanted posters, two portraits next to several lines of text, and she wonders who's done what now. Likely nothing of consequence; the Fire Nation loves putting out bounty calls, as if this will endear them to the lowlife who answer those calls. There is no honor among thieves. After the soldiers leave, she draws closer, curiosity getting the best of her.

 _Ah. That explains a lot._

She congratulates herself on her discerning eye: the girl _is_ a princess after all, and her bounty price reflects it. Spirit-Eyes will only bring in half that amount, though to Tin-Hinan, who knows the extent of his capabilities now, he's worth twice her weight in gold.

She considers taking the posters down. She does not need the money, and those who would turn in two fugitives fleeing their oppressors do not deserve it. She has one hand outstretched already to peel back one corner, but she stops.

The Fire Nation will never take the desert. They cannot. But Sozin's comet is coming, and the sun will burn a thousand times brighter, strong enough to melt the sand under their feet. The desert will churn and sink into desolation, and the Fire Nation will prevail.

Will it, though?

 _We have survived this long by adapting to change, constantly. That is the way of the desert. We can weather this too._

She leaves the posters on the board. It might be more interesting to see what happens if they stay there.

* * *

 **A/N** : Notes about this chapter - archiveofourown dot org /works/7019827/chapters/41496296


	9. ZUKO, LU TEN: The Gurus

**A/N** : Interestingly, this is the first time in a long while where the real life time of posting (March 12) actually lines up with the dates in the chapter. Again, don't feel like you need to read this monster of a chapter in one gulp. I mark the section headings very meticulously so that you can stop, breathe, and come back to it later :)

* * *

 _10 March._ **ZUKO**

The guru makes his way up the mountain on a lovely spring day, a stiff breeze lifting the flags posted at intervals along the path up to the temple. Zuko and Aang watch his progress through the binoculars supplied by the Mechanist, his figure clean and crisp even at this distance.

"You're sure that's your guy?" Teo asks, holed up with them in the tiny, cramped watchtower.

"Can't imagine what other old man would randomly start scaling a mountain that's known to be uninhabited. And at such a prodigious pace, too," Aang says.

"Hm... I'll take your word for it." Teo still sounds cautious. "If he turns out not to be who you're expecting, don't worry; Dad and I have put up plenty of defenses at every level. This temple won't go down easily."

Zuko's not sure he wants to know. Still, he can understand their concern for security.

"He'll take a while to get up here anyways. Might as well prepare a nice welcome for him." Zuko decides it's best to make a good impression. "Hey Aang, what do gurus like to eat?"

ZZZ

Onion banana juice, it turns out. "...I'll see what the kitchens can do," Teo says, not sounding hopeful. Neither of the components of the guru's favored blend are native to the area or even in season, after all.

"Wonderful!" the guru exclaims cheerfully. After Teo leaves, he confides: "That's not actually my favorite; it just sounds appropriately eclectic."

Aang and Zuko look at each other uneasily, wondering if the guru will be as whimsical with the rest of his teachings.

ZZZ

 _ **Earth - Survival - Fear**_

 _11 March._

"In order to access the Avatar state, you will need to open all the chakras. Zuko, what do you know about chakras?"

"...er." _What are chakras?_ He side-eyes Aang. _Help._

"Chakras are pools of spiraling energy within our bodies. They get blocked by certain emotions, preventing energy from flowing," Aang clarifies.

The guru nods. "Opening the chakras is a very involved experience. You must open them all before you can achieve balance within yourself. Are you ready, Zuko?"

He blows out a quick breath, suddenly nervous. Does it matter if he's ready or not right now? He needs to be, and so he will be.

He feels the silent grip of Aang's hand over the back of his, resting peacefully in his lap. It's not much, but it's comforting at least to know that Aang will be there for him.

"I'm ready."

ZZZ

"The first chakra is the Earth Chakra, located at the base of the spine. It deals with survival and is blocked by fear."

As befits the chakra, they are secreted away deep within the bowels of the mountain, in an echoey cavern with hardly a sliver of sunlight. The guru sits cross-legged on a raised stone plaque, while Zuko and Aang face him side by side.

"What are you most afraid of?"

Zuko's thoughts immediately turn to the first time he had cause to fear for his life: the night he and Lu Ten were attacked by bandits outside Hira'a. It was the night he made his first fire.

That explains much, now that he thinks about it. _My firebending comes from fear, so it was always weak compared to Azula's._ Hers stemmed from... spite and rebellion, he supposes; she started firebending at the royal academy in defiance of the instructors who refused to teach her at such a young age.

But that night, he wasn't entirely ruled by fear. He believed Lu Ten, his all-powerful older brother, would save him, and that gave him the courage to strike back.

If he really had to take an instance of true fear, it would be the time he received a letter from Ba Sing Se, not from Lu Ten but from Hanxin, his right-hand man.

 _The truth is, he's overtaxing himself. This is the first night in ages that I've seen him sleep at a normal hour, and that was only because he got a concussion from an earthbender with an honest-to-god mace. I try, we all do, to take on some of the burden, but he still wears himself out._

That was the first time he was confronted with how real the possibility of Lu Ten's death was. Lu Ten had been so badly injured that he couldn't even sit up and write to Zuko himself. Even worse, there was nothing Zuko could do to help him. His cousin's own stalwart drive to push himself to the limits in the interests of the soldiers under his care would ultimately lead to his death.

The guru sounds sad as he intuits what Zuko has just relived. "Your fears are real, and they have come to pass, in spite of your hopes otherwise. But you cannot shrink away from them or allow them to paralyze you. Some things you fear can be prevented; some cannot. You must face them all equally with the hope of salvation."

Zuko frowns internally. That sounds... not promising? But then again, who saved him when he was held hostage by murderous bandits? Himself and his newly acquired firebending. Who tried to save Lu Ten as he was dying? Hanyu, his most capable man, and sometimes, unpredictably, hope is finite. But that is no reason not to muster every ounce of it as he can against that which he dreads.

He grounds himself stably in that thought and lifts his chin resolutely. There is a smile in the guru's voice as he declares, "You have opened the Earth Chakra."

ZZZ

 **MUSHI**

"Do you suppose we'll get to eat dinner some time tonight, Miao?" Jet asks the cat archly, making sure he's loud enough for Mushi to hear.

"Murr?" Miao seems doubtful.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Mushi sighs, squinting at where his latest attempt at target practice ended up, two feet away from the tree he intended to hit. "Might I remind you that _you_ were the one who suggested I learn archery, even though your skill more than makes up for my lack thereof?"

Jet turns a critical eye towards Mushi's failed target. "Ah, it's hopeless. What would you do without me?" He holds out a hand for the bow, and Mushi hands it over willingly.

Suddenly, Jet crouches down, staring through the tall, fallow brush at a flicker of movement far beyond their range. "See that?"

Mushi looks but sees nothing. "What?"

"Rabbit." Jet smirks, his movements slow and measured, easing himself into a muted prowl through the grass. "Leave this to me."

Mushi sets Miao on his shoulder and follows several paces behind, trying to not disturb the grass. He finally sees the white rabbit Jet's stalking, nosing around the brush, unaware of its peril.

The creak of a bow being strung, the nock of an arrow, and then _thwang._ Faster than Mushi can track, the rabbit twitches aside and disappears.

"Damn it!" Jet springs into action, charging after it.

"Wait, Jet!"

But he's already off, his gait leonine and loping easily over the terrain, swords strapped to his back. Mushi has no choice but to pursue him, Miao digging her claws into his shoulder. Up ahead, Jet's reached some kind of woody marsh, tall, gnarled trees laden with vines and overgrowth, the air dark and ominous.

"Jet!"

"I've got this, just give me a moment!" he calls, not stopping.

Damn it. He's got to keep up or he'll lose Jet. Mushi plunges into the swamp, resigned to a very unwelcome mud bath before dinner.

Before long, he's got bigger problems on his mind. Namely, he's lost. Every tree and stagnant pool looks the same as the last; he wanders endlessly without seeing a trace of Jet's passage.

"Jet?" he calls at intervals. Nothing. "Ugh."

He has an uneasy feeling about this place, like something's watching him and Miao. He surveys his surroundings, but there's nothing to be found. Something creaks behind him, a rustling, scuttling sound like claws on bark; he whirls around - emptiness. A broken branch? Mutant squirrels? Is this swamp haunted? Miao whines in fear, sniffing the air as Mushi brushes against something sticky.

"...what?" He frowns at the stringy, moist substance coating his sleeve. "Ew..."

Stringy...moist...he looks up. It's draped all over the branches, a fetid smell emanating from directly overhead.

 _Oh. Gods._

 _Spiders spiders spiders giant spiders spirits save me this isn't how I want to die_

He's dimly cognizant of Miao leaping from his shoulder and darting away as he struggles fruitlessly against the ever increasing tangles enshrouding him. Caught like a fly in a web, his awareness fades slowly. Now his eyes dim, hearing still intact, an eerie rattling as the spiders swarm down from the branches, a feast at hand.

 _I hope Jet managed to get that rabbit_

 _Have a nice dinner_

 _No more Mushi to slow him down_

 _Spiders_

Suddenly, the clang of steel, spiders shrieking, a cat yowling, the sickening splat of blood and flesh torn by sharp edges -

"Mushi!"

He tries to respond, but he is fading, unknowing, into the darkness.

MMM

 _ **Water - Pleasure - Guilt**_

 _12 March._ **AANG**

"The second chakra is the Water Chakra, located in the sacrum. It deals with pleasure and is blocked by guilt."

They are in the same room where Zuko communicated with Avatar Koko's spirit (and got pushed into the fountain for his troubles; how's that for guilt, huh, Aang?) Seated as they are on opposite ledges of the fountain facing inwards, Aang has to look through the water's spray at Zuko's meditating form.

Zuko has told him the circumstances around his mother's disappearance, and it's not difficult to see why he would feel responsible for her absence from his life. As far as he knows, she was forced to leave the palace to protect him, and he considers that his fault.

 _Don't you think she felt the same way as she left you, Zuko?_ Aang laments. _We rarely suffer our misfortunes in solitude._ Grief and anger and guilt and every negative emotion have a way of cycling around and flowing into the next person, like an insidious fountain.

"Guilt is regret at not having acted as you believe you should have in a meaningful instant," the guru intones. "Look at all the guilt that burdens you. What do you blame yourself for?"

"When I set out to wander the world with Zuko, I felt guilty for leaving my mother behind," Aang volunteers. "And Zuko, when I left you behind at the Freedom Fighters' hideout..." He shakes his head, even now disbelieving of the churlishness of his actions. "You needed me, and I abandoned you."

Zuko's eyes are open, limpid and warm, longing to exude comfort and reassurance through the cold mist. They've been over this before; there is little of their hearts that they do not share.

"Realize that our feelings of guilt are colored by what we think others' expectations of us are. Aang, did your mother entreat you to stay? Did she try to stop you?" the guru inquires, knowing the answer naturally but knowing also that Aang needs to verbalize it for himself.

"No. She all but pushed me out the door."

The guru nods. "She knew your duty lay elsewhere. Realize also that these things happen for a reason. Often, this reason is neither pleasant nor obvious except in hindsight."

"Why did you leave, Aang?" Zuko asks, not accusing, but illuminating. "What was your reason?"

There is a leaf floating in the pool, drifting with the spatter of the water. Aang follows it as it wanders beyond the spill, no longer buffeted about constantly.

"I needed space from my anger, centered around you, around what you kept from me." He snatches the leaf up from the water, twirling it between thumb and forefinger. "I found it. And I found more. I found the depths of your love and loyalty; I found the places you would follow me to without hesitation.

"...I found _you_."

"There's your reason," Zuko breathes, voice like a refreshing bath suffusing him with energy, and those aren't tears in Aang's eyes – it's just the fountain's exuberant spray getting in his face, y'know? Yeah.

AAA

 **MUSHI**

 _A young boy crouches on the ground amid dust and ashes. Smoke fills the air between them, but through the acrid haze, he is clearly crying. Shudders and thrills shake his tiny frame, face hidden in his hands._

 _Mushi approaches to kneel beside him, and the boy looks up. Wide, dark eyes drench tearstained cheeks, and he looks so lost, unkempt hair a halo around his face making him seem even smaller and frailer._

 _"Where are your parents, buddy?" he asks softly, not wanting to spook him. "Why are you crying?"_

 _The boy's tears begin to flow anew, a slight hiccup plaguing his voice. "Because you left me."_

...I left you? But...

 _The trample of hooves strikes up behind him, and the boy jolts to his feet in frenzied flight. Before he can take two steps, a volley of arrows hurtles through the air, meeting their target with dull, muted thuds in his back. He slumps to the ground, facedown and anonymous._

No _, Mushi thinks, frantic, even as the stampede of unruly steeds is upon him. He stumbles to the boy's side, turning his limp body over; he needs to know: "Who are you?"_

 _But the visage beneath his hands has changed, now a boy with golden eyes, hair pulled into a high ponytail, eyebrows creased in pain as he gasps out, "Why did you leave me? Why couldn't you have stayed?"_

 _The taste of guilt is dry as bone and salty with blood now his own_. Lee _..._

MMM

 _ **Fire - Willpower - Shame**_

 _13 March._ **ZUKO**

They are circled around a cozy campfire underneath the stars, and Zuko thinks he has an inkling as to what the next chakra is.

"Third is the Fire Chakra, located in the stomach. It deals with willpower and is blocked by shame.

"What are you ashamed of? What are your biggest disappointments in yourself?"

That is not difficult to surmise. Zuko can think of a plethora of memories surrounding his special acquaintance with shame, but two rise most readily to the surface.

"Avatar Koko. When she saw how my will to kill the Fire Lord was wavering." _Do not forget me, Avatar Zuko. More importantly, do not let your name be remembered in condemnation throughout the dark ages, the one who failed to stop the Fire Lord._ "When she charged me to finish him off or lose face before the pages of history.

"The Agni Kai against my father." Once he starts, he cannot stop. "I was proud of myself for standing my ground in the war council...until I turned and saw it was my father whom I dishonored."

He gazes across the fire at Aang, who knows the story well enough from Zuko. His bright eyes mirror the stars above. All they are, are fallen stars, grounded meteorites split up like scrap metal and made to withstand the trials of fire, emerging unrecognizable.

"Pride is not the opposite of shame, but its source, Zuko," the guru says gently. "True humility is the antidote to shame."

"If anything, the Agni Kai was the least shameful thing you've ever done," Aang says. "You showed true humility when you equated those soldiers' lives to your own: too valuable to sacrifice as if they were disposable. You should be anything but ashamed of your actions."

Zuko has known this on some level for a long time, but accepting it consciously is quite another matter.

"The advice of the previous Avatars is not to be taken lightly," the guru advises. "However, your pride may be preventing you from completing the task at hand."

He breathes in deeply, gathering his inner fire and letting his unsettled stomach relax. Defeating the Fire Lord is not his task alone, and its rewards will not be his to hoard. With true humility, he will accept the help of anyone who offers. Only with combined forces can they hope to defeat Ozai.

The guru nods in approval. "You have opened the Fire Chakra."

ZZZ

 **JET**

He makes Lu Ten comfortable, pillowed on a mossy tree root, Miao standing guard over his sleep, before heading over to where their unlikely rescuers are gathered.

"Oh, howdy stranger!" One enthusiastic swampbender – Due? – greets. "We were just about to invite you to supper!"

"It's a feast fit for a king!" His friend – Tho, Jet seems to recall – exclaims, extending a huge helping of mystery meat to him on a skewer.

 _It's a giant fly. I'm eating a giant fly_ , Jet thinks, panic mounting as the swampbenders watch him eagerly for a reaction. He breaks off a fried leg with a ginger snap. _Here goes._

It tastes surprisingly unremarkable, like frog-chicken-legs but tougher.

"Hey, he likes it!"

"See, it ain't so bad." Due claps him on the back. "Now try some of this." He hands Jet a giant curved leaf, the bowl of which clearly contains a huge pickled slug.

 _Oh gods why._

"So, what did the spiders tell you?"

"They can talk?" Jet asks with some alarm. This swamp just gets weirder and weirder.

"Pffft, he'll believe anything!" The swamp men burst out guffawing, and Jet flushes a little at his own gullibility. How was he supposed to know the swamp spiders can't talk? This swamp is full of the unbelievable.

"They can't talk, but they do show you some pretty wild visions while you're caught up in their webs. It's part of the swamp's general effect, but amplified."

Jet knows what he saw in the tangles of the spiderwebs, inches from death. He saw the maw of the river as it burst the banks of the dam and rushed downhill to engulf Gaipan. He saw Zuko's expression, corrupted with disgust and disillusion.

 _You ruined yourself, Jet._

He saw the pride that eclipsed his good intentions, leading him to think that only his way was right, that wiping out the village was an acceptable solution.

He does not tell Lu Ten this; he cannot. If Lu Ten is anything like his cousin, he too will shrink away in revulsion, leaving Jet alone with his shame. Fortunately, the swamp seems to have given Lu Ten no shortage of visions to divulge, relieving Jet of the need to share his own.

JJJ

 _ **Air - Love - Grief**_

"What did you see?"

Lu Ten thinks for a moment. "I think I saw you."

Jet stares in stupefied hope, thinking that perhaps... "You remember?"

Lu Ten shrugs, wary of disappointing Jet. "I don't know what I remember. I just saw a child who looked like you, tangled in grief all alone, then struck down by arrows. I saw my brother, too. I... I held him as he died, again."

This time, the grief in his voice is unmistakable, like a thread running through a bolt of cloth that threatens to unravel the whole thing. Jet can't help but fall back on his old ways, stretching out a hand in comfort, wondering how much of the gesture is calculated intrigue and how much is genuine empathy. Sitting as far apart as they are, the only part of Lu Ten he can reach without moving is his ankle.

Lu Ten doesn't shy away, shifting his leg to rest more firmly in Jet's grasp but otherwise barely acknowledging that tenuous touch. His eyes are far away, even as Jet rests his hand over the shallow ridge of bone on the inside of his ankle. A faint pulse meets the pads of his fingers, here a moment, then lost, then found again.

Miao wanders up to them, blissfully unaware of Lu Ten's aggrieved reverie, and eases herself onto the leg that Jet's not holding. Smiling minutely, Lu Ten elevates his knee, sliding the kitten down to rest in the divot between his thigh and his waist.

"There was more," he says at length, scratching behind Miao's ears. The cat purrs delightedly, squirming to maximize contact with his massaging fingers. "I saw someone I've never seen before: an old man with white hair and two scars through his right eye. He was meditating surrounded by candles. Who could that be?"

"No idea." Jet is once again reminded of how little he truly knows of Lu Ten. The task of restoring his memories seems all the more unattainable.

"Hm..." Lu Ten ponders this. "There was a monster, too. It looked like a giant spider, or a scorpion, but it had human faces."

Okay, this is getting really weird. "How many heads did it have?" Surely this bit was just a fever dream and not actually something Lu Ten encountered in the past?

"No, it had one head, but the face kept changing. One moment it was a beautiful woman, next a child, then an old blind man, and then... one of the faces was my own, just for a fleeting instant. There were many more, constantly in flux."

"...yeah, I'm gonna say that was just the spiders messing with your head," Jet dismisses. "It's too weird in any other case. What kind of monster borrows people's faces to display on itself like its own face isn't good enough. That's lame."

JJJ

 _14 March._ **AANG**

"The fourth chakra is the Air Chakra, located in the heart. It deals with love and is blocked by grief."

Aang's grief is for that which he never had, but Zuko's is for all that he had and lost.

"Is it better to have loved and lost or to never have loved at all?" The guru challenges them to the age-old question.

They are seated on one of the bridges that span the gorges between the many peaks of the Northern Air Temple. At such deathly heights, the air is thin and cold, loveless, unkind, but Zuko is not shivering, and Aang feels a rush of pride at how well his pupil has learned.

"To have loved and lost," Aang says confidently in the same moment as Zuko declares, "To never have loved at all."

The guru's bushy eyebrows go up, perhaps stoked at the prospect of an enlivening philosophical debate.

Zuko sighs. "I don't know that I want to argue about that, Aang." He runs a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable, as if afraid that Aang will accuse him of not valuing his love enough.

"No, Zuko, that's not what I want to do either." Zuko's hair is lovely all mussed up like this, and Aang sends a playful gust over towards him, fluffing out those errant strands and letting them fall back into their proper places. It's as close to touching him as Aang can get in present company.

The guru ahems imperiously as Zuko flails, hair now covering his eyes. Maybe he's used to pupils who are less prone to goofing off in class (and also who aren't hopelessly in love with each other; that's always very distracting). But his gaze softens as he watches Zuko emerge, a faint blush gracing his cheeks, and Aang knows that feeling well.

"You have both known separate but grievous losses that shook the foundations of your lives, like an earthquake that splits two mountains apart." The guru gestures wide at the expanse of bottomless gorge beneath them. "But your loved ones have not left you entirely. Their love is reborn into the love you experience today, from all sides, in all shapes and forms, connecting you like new bridges across tragic chasms."

So it is. Aang looks over the edge of the bridge, at the countless feathery souls he imagines bolstering the bridges of his healing heart. All the new love he has found in the people he's met since leaving home: that is where his supports lie, and that is where he soars in newfound joy and love.

AAA

 _ **Sound - Truth - Lies**_

 _15 March._ **JET**

"It's sooo hot. Remind me why this is called the Lake of Dreams?" Lu Ten complains as they row across a giant lake under the merciless morning sun.

"You'll see later on," Due promises. He and Tho are a few meters ahead in their own boat. "Just enjoy the sunshine."

"But it's hot _and_ humid. How can I enjoy the sunshine if I feel like I'm underwater?"

"Just take your shirt off and stop moping," Jet says shortly, having already done so himself. Sweat rolls down his shoulders as he lifts his paddle out of the water, plunging it down again in a long, thorough stroke. Behind him, Lu Ten does the same. The swampbenders don't need any such oars for their boats, but they graciously allow Jet and Lu Ten to keep pace.

"Eh...I'd rather not." Lu Ten sounds uncomfortable. "I have a scar under my ribs on the right. It's really awful."

"A scar? From what?"

"...I don't know." At Jet's incredulous stare, he hurries to defend himself. A little flustered, he fumbles with his paddle and loses the rhythm of his rowing, slowing them down. "It's weird, I know, but I think I must have gotten it shortly before I got to Ba Sing Se. That period of time is like a blank page in my memory."

Interesting. Maybe it's from the last battle before he was captured by the Dai Li?

"But that's what we're trying to figure out," Lu Ten says more optimistically. According to the swampbenders, there's some kind of a tree of knowledge across the lake, which will take the entire day to traverse. "The truth might not be so far away now."

"Hm. Well, if you're willing to take the word of a bunch of swamp dwellers with nothing but strategically secured leaves for undergarments, I can see why you might think so," he says waspishly.

"What, since when did fashion sense equal trustworthiness in your value system?" Lu Ten laughs. "Seriously, though; I have to thank you, Jet, for bringing us here. I feel like we're getting closer to solving this mystery and letting me feel more comfortable in my own head. It's all thanks to you."

Thank the gods Lu Ten can't see his face from behind. He sniffs the air suspiciously for any psychoactive fumes. Lu Ten's not usually this open with his affections. He must be really moved.

At the same time, Jet feels a sharp stab of guilt at what he's not telling: what transpired after Lu Ten gave Jet a second chance at life, what he chose to do with his time as a Freedom Fighter, the hundreds of innocent lives he nearly ended. He lied to Zuko the same way he is lying to Lu Ten now, spinning an illusion of himself that holds no more water than a leaking boat.

JJJ

 **MUSHI**

Half an hour later, they find out why it's called the Lake of Dreams. Surrounding them as far as the eye can see is a field of lotus flowers, pink and white in festive splendor, floating on their leafy pads just at the surface of the water.

"Wow." It's dazzling. The sun glances off shimmers of exposed lake here and there, the only indication that they are still on a body of water and not a plain of wildflowers.

"Told you it was worth seeing!" Due calls back to them. "I thought I was dreamin' too the first time I saw it."

"It's beautiful," Mushi murmurs. "Don't you think so, Jet?"

"Mm..." Jet doesn't seem to think so, bringing his paddle down without a care as to where he's placing it and nearly squashing some of the flowers. So much for a romantic boat ride.

They've been paddling for a few hours, and it should feel tiring, especially with Mushi's ailing shoulder, but he finds that his muscles fall into an easy pattern. Repetitive and unchanging, their paddles rise from the surface in sync and plunge to the fore once more, dragging through the water to propel them forward. He doesn't have to raise his paddle too far out of the water and risk overextending his arm or wasting energy. These mindless motions let his thoughts wander, settling close at hand on none other than Jet.

The broad expanse of his back stretches and ripples through each cycle, muscles rolling beneath his skin but not garishly defined. It's mesmerizing how they return and return again in constant motion, never staying in one position for long yet never straying far.

In a way, it is like water itself. A drop of water from this lake may evaporate into the clouds, be carried by wind far over the mountains, fall into the river, flow down to the ocean, where it rises into mist and cloud, to fall back into this lake. Its life contains a certain inevitability.

Some ways ahead of them, he observes the swampbenders' manner of bending, an odd windmilling pattern where they slice the air in eternal circles, just like the row cycle of this paddle boat. Slow and fast, crouching and rising as the current seems to indicate, perennially cycling through the same forms without end.

 _Change is the only constant,_ he reflects. _Once, I was Lu Ten; somehow I became Mushi; now I may be on my way to becoming Lu Ten again. All that has remained the same is the fact that I am changing._

"See something you like?"

Jet's teasing voice draws him out of heavy thoughts, and he realizes he's been absently staring at Jet's back for long enough to be caught.

"Just thinking about the inevitability of time and how some things never change," he says opaquely, as much to make Jet laugh as to mask his unexpected affection.

"Of course," Jet grumbles, turning back towards the direction they're headed. "Can't learn to take a hint; can drone on about irrelevant philosophical talking points. You must have been a heartbreaker."

 _Was I?_ Mushi takes the hint. "You're a very handsome young man, Jet; surely you don't need me to give you any reinforcement. Even Miao thinks so, and I trust her judgment completely. Right, Miao?"

Miao has been hiding in the back corner of the boat under an awning formed by Jet's discarded shirt. She meows her assent, and Jet snorts but says nothing, perhaps appeased.

MMM

 **ZUKO**

"Fifth is the Sound Chakra, located in the throat. It deals with truth and is blocked by lies."

The guru's voice echoes in the sanctuary where just a week ago, Zuko and Aang had stood, surrounded by dizzying bellsong. A concert of hope for the future, full of bright prospects and the truth that Zuko knows: the knowledge of the Air Nomads will not die with Aang.

"We tell lies because the truth is sometimes hard to confront. The lies we tell others stem from our own inability to accept the truth."

Zuko thinks of all the times he's lied about his identity, both as the Avatar and as the Fire Lord's son. It has not been easy, knowing that he is destined to save the world from the most hated man alive, his own father, an ample irony.

 _But when I told the truth, Toph, Aang, Katara, Sokka, they were able to accept it. To accept me. At their own pace, of course._ He wonders if Jet is still wandering in his hatred for the Fire Nation, or if he's managed to find a balm for his broken heart.

"And the lies we tell ourselves stem from the truths that we think others cannot accept." The guru completes his proverb.

He looks over at Aang, eyes closed, seated just feet away from where he stood in the center of the hall, overcome by the concert of the bells. How lovely he was then, blindfolded, tilting his head keenly from side to side as the sound struck his ears. Blindly in love, blindly loving Zuko, who shares his heart and musings.

"I once told myself that I hated the Fire Nation," Aang echoes Zuko's thoughts, eyes still sealed in meditation. "The Fire Lord especially, and by extension, you."

"So what changed your mind?"

"I told myself that lie because I thought certain people wouldn't be able to accept me otherwise. My mother, the spirit of my departed father, every Air Nomad killed in the war... I felt like they would be judging my actions and finding me wanting," Aang explains.

"The ghosts of the past often touch our lives in ways we are barely aware of." No doubt the guru has walked there before, the only one to brave the dead in the aftermath of the Fire Nation's attack on the Northern Air Temple. "But a ghostly jury cannot tell you right from wrong, truth from lies. You must evaluate your own choices and discover the truth for yourself."

Aang opens his eyes and returns Zuko's gaze.

"Found it," he says lightly. "Right in front of me all this time."

ZZZ

 _ **Light - Insight - Illusion**_

 _16 March._ **AANG**

"The sixth chakra is the Light Chakra, located in the center of the forehead. It deals with insight and is blocked by illusion."

It is dawn, and they are at the pinnacle of the temple's observatory, specks under the vast heavenly vault. Zuko looks like he's currently laboring under the illusion of wakefulness, and Aang bites back a smile.

"The greatest illusion is the illusion of separation."

If Aang had to speak for Zuko, he would name the deaths of his mother and cousin as the ultimate separation. The greatest change is death, and Zuko has bidden his farewell to them both far too prematurely. Such is the world: all too eager to call in its debts and reclaim the lives it's loaned. Death separates them now, and there can be no illusion in that.

As for Aang himself, that's not so hard, either. Since before he has recollection, he has been removed from his father, and once, this caused him no end of bitterness and grief. But now he has Zuko, literally a reincarnation of his father and a continuation of the Avatar spirit. These things have such a magical way of working out, he knows it was meant to be. He takes comfort in being able to anticipate such perfect happenings.

"Psst! Sifu Aang!"

Well, that's one happening he didn't anticipate: Yue Fei and Yue Zha waking up at the crack of dawn to pursue him to the ends of the earth. What could they possibly want?

He sneaks a peek at Guru Pathik, who frowns back at him sternly as if to chastise him for his pupils disturbing the peace. Yikes. He looks back down at his hands folded in prayer, but out of the corner of his eye, the guru winks insolently. Alright then.

He sneaks out of the room to entertain the sisters. "What is it?"

Yue Fei looks at him with a grim complexion reminiscent of the guru's mock austerity. "Sifu Aang, when are we going to have another Air Acolyte class? You skipped yesterday's without warning!"

"Oh sh –, ahem, shoot, yes, I did." He recalls that indeed, yesterday was to be the second weekly Air Acolyte meeting, comprised mostly of village kids too young to be put to work but old enough to get underfoot in play unless they're otherwise supervised. Zuko's suggestion that he start teaching them in the ways of the Air Nomads was met with much enthusiasm.

"I wanted to learn about Avatar Yangchen who brought peace to the world for one hundred years." Yue Zha sounds disappointed. "You said you would teach us, Sifu Aang."

"So I did. I'm so sorry, I know you were looking forward to it. Zuko and I have been busy with the guru... but I should have tried to make time for you." He crouches down before the two. "I promise you, day after tomorrow, I'll make up for it." They'll be done with the chakras tomorrow, Zuko will be able to control the Avatar state, and all will be well.

"Pinky promise?" Yue Fei asks, very concerned about Aang's fidelity.

"Naturally." He extends both pinkies for each one to take, solemnly swearing himself to his word.

AAA

"Just as great as the illusion of separation is the illusion of permanence. Things that we think will endure pass beyond remembrance. Some things cannot last forever; others persevere, but in forms much changed from before.

"What changes are you resisting? What old pillars do you still cling to?"

The sun is rising. A new day is beginning.

"I used to think that I would one day found a new generation of Air Nomads," Aang says tentatively. He's never explicitly discussed it with Zuko, one of the few things too close to a ragged, painful edge of his heart.

Zuko hears the implications of his words and straightens, all thoughts of sleep banished.

"It seemed impossible but also requisite. All Air Nomads innately possess airbending, therefore all airbenders must be the children of other airbenders, of whom I am the last.

"All my life, I've never believed I could fully embody the characteristics of a true master, despite my tattoos. I could never reach the spirit world, too attached to this one. It would be a slap in the face to my father's legacy if I couldn't even keep our race from dying out."

"Aang, you don't have to – " Zuko starts to say, words strained, paining him to say them.

"No." Aang holds up a hand. "I refuse, of my own will, to take the path prescribed for me by myself long before I ever met you."

"Air is the element of freedom," the guru declares. "There is no need to draw the circle of your own prison for the sake of your people, Aang."

"But..." Zuko seems more perturbed than expected, not having mentally prepared himself for this.

"There will be other ways, Zuko." Oddly, talking to Yue Fei and Yue Zha seems to have settled Aang's fears on this topic. "The freedom to abandon tradition is also the freedom to choose new ways, and I choose you."

AAA

 **JET**

"Everything is connected," the tree man says. "We're all the same, you and I and little Ms. Whiskers here." He addresses Miao on Lu Ten's shoulders. "We all live in the same world and love and fear the same things. There's nothing separating us but the illusions of difference we choose to create and believe in."

Lu Ten looks enthralled, gazing up at the ancient banyan tree like it's some kind of deity. Jet resists the urge to shrug and turn his back on all this mumbo jumbo. He thought there would be some kind of fruit of knowledge, or a secret message carved somewhere, but it's just the tree. It doesn't look that different from the ones back home in the forest.

"Even death is an illusion. Those who appear to be gone are in fact not so far away – if you know where to look for them."

"Where?" Lu Ten asks, and oh, he's the perfect audience. Jet grits his teeth.

"In your heart, I suppose; that's where the spirits of our loved ones live on, or so I'm told," he spits out, suddenly angry beyond proportion. Lu Ten turns to him in surprise.

"Not always." Tree-man smiles benevolently despite his outburst. "Why don't you let the banyan tree tell you?"

"No thanks," Jet refuses. "I'd rather not trust a tree that tells me dead people are alive and that I'm the same as any firebender."

"Jet..." Lu Ten starts, but Jet cuts him off.

"Go, Mushi. You'll get more out of this than I'll ever care to."

Lu Ten sighs. "All right. Hold onto Miao for me, then. I don't want her to get lost exploring the tree."

He hands over the cat and follows the guru away, up the broad roots of the tree, up a path seemingly carved into the trunk and branches themselves, out of sight.

Miao purrs inquisitively in his hands, and he feels like he needs to explain to her. "How would you feel if your whole family was dead, but some know-it-all came along and said, 'Nah, you just have to feel them in your heart; death is an illusion, yada-yada-yada' – that's bullshit. The dead are gone forever."

Miao blinks up at him, uncomprehending. "You're just like me, though maybe you're too young to remember your mom and your siblings." He sighs. "Well, let's just hope Lu Ten learns something from all this."

JJJ

 **MUSHI**

He follows Huu up through the tree, the way made of natural grooves and manmade paths. "What do you think I'll see?" he asks.

Huu smiles. He has a kindly face, the face of a guru, but the cloudy skies cast an ominous shadow over his profile. "I don't know," he says, seeming to take great joy in his non-answer.

From this high up, Mushi can feel the dampness of the air, the hair on his skin standing on end. There is a sensation of power here, of inestimable force. The clouds amass their bulk across the overcast sky, a stalwart stormfront that rumbles with distant thunder every now and then.

They are standing at a fork in the branches high above the canopy of the swamp. Mushi reaches down, inspired to touch the bare bark and listen.

Like a whisper, it grows; like a candle miles away on a clear night, it brightens – a feeling that Mushi knows is the one he must follow, and follow it he does.

He begins to see a path behind his closed eyes: north of here and a little east, beneath the slopes of a forested hill sprawls a valley, somewhere that meant something to him once. Untilled, uninhabited, there is nothing and no one there, but Mushi feels a pull to that place. It is significant.

His focus shifts, leaving the valley, traveling still farther north and west. By the banks of a great river and there, standing grim and alone, is the old man he saw in his spiderweb visions.

 _Who is he?_ Somehow, Mushi feels they have not met before – but they will. It is meant to pass.

He looks up at Huu, who seems perfectly aware of what has just transpired in Mushi's head. "I think...I think I know where to go now."

Huu nods. "The banyan shows many things. How you interpret them is beyond its control."

Mushi turns his gaze to the branches beyond where they now stand. "I think it has more to show me. I need to go farther."

"Be its guest," Huu says graciously. "Some things, the tree shows only to certain people. I am sure you will learn much."

Mushi leaves him there, approaching the branch point with care. The path he steps onto leads him to a stout limb near the apex of the tree. Once he sets foot there, he has no handholds or safety nets: just the tree, himself, and the sky.

Stark and somber, the sky before a thunderstorm is infinitely powerful and exhilarating. He breathes in deeply, and though the air is heavy with water, it doesn't feel as stifling as on the lake. There is a change ready to be wrought here. He feels it.

A flash of lightning strikes in the distance, and he considers it, feet firmly planted beneath him. Lightning is the separation of positive and negative energy by the amassing of so much water high above. Positive and negative long to be together again, pulled towards each other until they unite just before striking the ground. That discharge of energy upon meeting is lightning's power, its fated flash.

It is amazing to witness up close, and Lu Ten keeps his eyes skyward. Something is coming, something that will change him forever. It is in the water, in the air, and his hair stands on end as a flash of lightning materializes itself so close, he can taste its charge, and all the heavens are aglow with its blinding light. Mutely, he reaches a hand up towards the epicenter, just as positive and negative crash back together, breaching one finger in a searing apotheosis.

MMM

 **JET**

He's just finished demonstrating some useful bird calls to Miao when he sees a bright flash and hears a deafening roar, the sound of wood splitting and a body crashing through the tree.

(He knows that sound from experience, having lost control swinging through the branches a few too many times when the Freedom Fighters first moved to the forest).

"Oh my god." He watches Lu Ten fall from the heights of the banyan, down past its roots, down into the canopy of the swamp. Some eighty feet all told, and who knows what muck he's landed in or if he's even still in one piece. " _Oh my god._ "

Jet retains the presence of mind to stuff Miao down the front of his shirt, but the rest of his body is geared for action. He _has_ to find Lu Ten.

He dashes through the brush and stagnant pools of the swamp, rushing towards where he estimates Lu Ten's trajectory ended. He could be injured, in pain, _dying..._

 _No. I'll find him alive._

"Lu Ten!"

There! Between the ridges of a gnarled tree's roots, just beyond the water line, Lu Ten lies curled and unmoving.

"No," he chokes out, splashing nearer, frantically rushing to his side. "Lu Ten..."

He stirs suddenly, a shuddering twitch that runs through his whole body. "Don't touch me!"

Jet stops, just feet away. "...why not?"

He thinks back to the flash of lightning – if he touches Lu Ten, will he be shocked into oblivion?

Miao does not heed Lu Ten's warning; all she knows is that her human is in distress, and she needs to go to him. She leaps out from Jet's shirt and bounds to Lu Ten, snuggling into the curve of his side as he lies still.

Nothing happens.

Lu Ten sucks in a quaking breath, one hand automatically going to pet Miao. It seems there is no residual lightning left on his body, and that at least is a good sign.

Jet all but begs. "Lu Ten, _please_."

Finally, he nods, opening the circle of his arms, and Jet scrambles to his knees, almost bodily lifting Lu Ten from the floor in a desperate embrace.

"Lu Ten," he gasps, too torn apart by what he could have lost to care that that is not who he is right now. "Lu Ten..."

He rests one hand on Jet's back in silent comfort. "I'm alright, Jet. It's okay. We're okay."

It's been a long while since Jet has been on the receiving end of those words, the one to be comforted and reassured rather than the one taking care. He relaxes into Lu Ten's arms and wholeheartedly, childishly believes him.

JJJ

 **MUSHI**

"What happened up there?"

Mushi closes his eyes, recalling those final electric moments before he fell. "I think the lightning struck me, but it didn't go through me into the tree. It went back out again."

Jet looks confused. "What do you mean? You're not injured at all."

They're back on the lake, heading for the far shore in the opposite direction from the swamp – Jet wants to gain as much distance as he can from that place. He paddles slowly, letting Mushi rest in the fore of the boat with Miao.

"I wouldn't say that," he hedges, rubbing at his right shoulder. It twinges every now and then when he shifts positions. He must have overextended his right arm when releasing the lightning. Jet notes his discomfort.

"Another wound that you don't know how you got?" he guesses.

"Yes, actually." Mushi sighs. The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders how he was able to stay so complacent in Ba Sing Se, never questioning the gaps in his memory, until Jet came along. "Hurts whenever I overreach my arm span. I'm like an old man."

Jet snorts. "So how could the lightning possibly have gone through you without killing you?"

"I felt it separate as it passed into me, into positive and negative energy." He pauses, recalling the sensation. "It didn't recombine until I released it from my other hand."

"You're losing me there."

"What I mean, in a manner of speaking, is that... I redirected it." It's surreal. He shouldn't be able to do this.

"You know, you used to be able to generate lightning itself, but I've never heard of anyone redirecting it from an outside source," Jet says.

This is crazy. He's a firebender, but he can't bend anything on purpose – just accidentally and in life-threatening situations, apparently. It figures.

"Do you... remember anything?" Jet asks cautiously.

He props one hand up under his chin, looking back at Jet. "No, but I feel like I'm on the cusp of remembering. We're so close."

 _We're so close._

MMM

 _ **Thought - Cosmic energy - Earthly attachment**_

 _17 March._ **ZUKO**

"The last chakra is the Thought Chakra, located at the crown of the head. It deals with pure cosmic energy and is blocked by earthly attachment."

On the highest point of the highest peak in the mountain range, they are as far from the bosom of the earth as they can be.

 _What attaches me to this earth?_

So many things, so many people on this earth tie him to it. How can he ever let them go? But if he wants to achieve full control of the Avatar state, he must. His mother, his uncle, Master Piandao, Toph, Katara, Sokka. All the people he's met along his travels, some of whom he does not remember, but who look to him all the same to restore balance. Shyu. The crazy herbalist. Old Man Ding. Tyro and Kani. Dock/Xu/Bushi. Jinora. The Freedom Fighters. Teo, the Mechanist, the people of Cold Mountain Temple. Lee. Hanyu.

"There are many forms of attachment, and not all of them have to do with love," the guru drones. "Consider also the relationships you develop out of duty, or spite, or hatred. These too tie you to the earth, just as strongly as those attachments formed from love."

It's true. Foremost, his duty to defeat the Fire Lord – how can he let his father go? What about his less antagonistic attachments: Jet, Hama, Toph's parents, General Mung, every enemy Fire Nation soldier they've ever come across? The world he is trying to save is for them too, regardless of how much they may want to kill him before he manages it.

Azula. He shouldn't care. They've long since ceased to be brother and sister in practice, but some part of him does want to see her again. Maybe to make up and relive happier memories, maybe just to show her how far he's come, despite everything she never envisioned him achieving. Either way, she is indispensable in his mind.

"I tend to think of it in terms of Guru Laghima. An earthly attachment is anything that would prevent you from meditating alone on a mountaintop for forty years," Aang contributes. "Laghima gave up all his earthly attachments, so he was able to spend the last forty years of his life floating above the ground in perfect enlightenment."

"Very astute, Aang," Guru Pathik praises. "Maybe one day you will be a guru too!"

"I'm trying to keep my career paths open," Aang says primly. "Glassblower, animal caretaker, guru, I've thought about them all."

"Your metaphor does beg the question, though: what if you stay on the mountaintop for only thirty-nine years and six months before coming down for something? Would that be considered an earthly attachment?" the guru challenges. "Why the arbitrary determinant of forty years?"

The guru and Aang launch into a heated discussion of numerical theory, leaving Zuko to his own devices, though he wonders if they are not in fact doing it for his sake. He needs time and willpower to divest himself of his attachments.

 _Several hours later..._

Most of them do not prove difficult to leave behind, except the most fundamental: Fire Lord Ozai... and Aang. No one else alive exerts a stronger pull over his life.

"You must learn to let them go, Zuko," the guru says kindly.

"How, though?" Zuko demands. "Take my father, for example. How am I to let go of my struggle against him? That's the whole point of me being the Avatar."

The guru shakes his head. "The purpose of the Avatar is not solely to defeat the Fire Lord, but to bring balance to the world. Sometimes these two things are not the same."

"I think it's less about vowing not to kill Fire Lord Ozai in this instant, but rather, allowing yourself to choose not to if the decision is right." Aang knows the struggles Zuko has put himself through with regards to this dilemma. "Open yourself up to the possibility of alternatives; don't cling to one prescribed path just because you think you have to. Just like me and my career options."

Well, he's not too far off the mark there. Zuko offers a faint twitch of a smile at this wise advice, convincing enough to twist the corners of Aang's mouth into genuine beams of sunshine. And therein lies the second dilemma: he cannot let go of Aang.

"If you were dying – " _No._ He firmly stops that thought short. _Never._ "If you needed my help... who cares about forty years of enlightenment? I'd give up my own life if it could save you."

"That's not how it works, though." Aang is serious now, voice low and passionate, back straight and shoulders proud, completely in control of his heart. "If I had to, I would give you up, too. Only if it was the right thing to do, but _I would."_

From somewhere beyond their meditation grounds, the sound of a stone bouncing down the slope reaches them, perhaps dislodged by a bird or a mountain fox. Zuko thinks it may be the sound of his heart breaking.

Aang mistakes his silence for disbelief. "I'll show you."

He closes his eyes, fingers interlaced, and breathes out, slow and long. On his next inhale, Zuko blinks and stares, riddled with shock, as Aang's figure blurs. Like a shadow, an almost translucent image of him disassociates from his body, a second, ethereal skin floating unsupported. It drifts higher and higher above them, climbing beyond sight, even as his body remains.

"Very good, Aang," the guru murmurs, as if Aang can hear him in this quasi-spirit-apparition state. Maybe he can. "You have opened all the chakras."

 _"Excellent, Azula," their father lauds. "You've mastered the fourteen basic forms much faster than most do. You are ready to move on to the next level." He turns a disapproving gaze to his son. "And what about you, Zuko?"_

It's terrifying how easily unpleasant memories can corrupt the present, but maybe it's the push that he needs.

He has let go of Azula. He has let go of his father. He can let go of Aang.

"Zuko, if you are not ready to open the chakra, you may not wish to proceed," the guru counsels him, sensing his turbulent emotions. "You will block yourself from accessing the Avatar state at all."

Zuko ignores him; he _can_ do this, just like Aang. He closes his eyes.

There is a transcendental staircase before him, the path to the center of pure cosmic energy. He alights on the literal path to enlightenment. See? It's not so hard. He's let go of all his earthly attachments. _There's no one left to hold me back._

He's almost there. He's almost there –

 _A hand outstretched_

 _He can see the world below, discarded_

 _He's about to touch his cosmic self, he's almost there –_

Without warning, the steps collapse, and for a breathless moment, he is suspended in midair –

Only to fall, and fall, and fall.

* * *

 **A/N** : Thank you for reading! Leave a comment if you saw something you liked ;)

Notes on the writing process here: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/42742028

Refer to "Bellsong", an Avatar Zuko extra for when Zuko refers to the concert of the bells (and the inspiration for forming the Air Acolytes): archiveofourown dot org/works/16790941


	10. AZULA: The Library

_13 March._ **HARU**

He wakes with a stiff, muzzy feeling of hot air suffocating him, sweaty and unwholesome. _Ugh, why did we come here again? Oh right, it was my idea._

A slight rustle of paper, and he glances at the bed, where Azula is sitting up, perusing a scroll in her lap. She hasn't noticed he's awake, intent on whatever she's reading. There's a faint crease between her eyebrows as her eyes dart down the lines of the scroll, capturing every detail with acuity and storing it away for later. Every now and then she'll come across something particularly interesting and her lips will purse briefly, drawing her cheekbones into sharp relief.

 _She's… lovely,_ he thinks, almost afraid to verbalize it even inside his head, as if she'll hear him. Lovely in the way a candle flame is to a moth just before it self-immolates in fiery splendor.

They've known each other for six months, he realizes. Six months since he was shipped off to a terrifyingly foreign land, only to find a single homely place in the most improbable person. Since then, they've progressed to a sort of snarky friendship with moments of awkward, genuine sincerity, always stepping back from the edge when it feels their souls are rubbing together too intimately. Their pace has been slow as a snail-sloth, but in his understanding, this is as fast as Azula gets.

 _I think that I could fall in love with you._ He prays that she doesn't hear this. There is no way she would ever consider him to be a suitable life partner. She's a princess, after all, linked to him temporarily out of convenience and a common goal. He can't ask for any more.

"What are you thinking so hard about?"

He jumps a little at her unexpected question. "Uh, just… wondering what you were reading?" Now that he thinks about it, he _is_ curious as to what could be interesting enough to constitute pre-breakfast reading.

"Nothing that would pique your interest," she dismisses, but at his heated frown, she relents. "It's a scroll that Jinora gave me before she died. It contains the steps to a composite firebending dance form meant to be performed in the rain."

"A rain dance—we could definitely use some of that in the desert," Haru quips, amusing himself with the mental image of Azula trying to summon rainclouds through a ritualized dance.

"Don't be silly; it doesn't bring the rain. It's meant to complement an existing pluvial aesthetic. Anyways, it was written by former Navy Admiral Jeong Jeong, and that alone should be enough to discredit it as a worthy art form." She clucks her tongue in derision.

"Who?" It's as if their familiarity has progressed to such a degree that she's forgotten he's not Fire Nation, and Haru isn't sure how to feel about that.

She folds up the scroll, losing interest in its contents, and swings her legs over the side of the bed, ready to rise. "A deserter and known lunatic. No one has any information on his current whereabouts or activities beyond 'probably meditating in some godforsaken corner of the Earth Kingdom.'"

"Not unlike us," Haru points out.

She favors him with a shrug and a roll of her eyes in passing. "Maybe so, but unlike him, we're actually trying to do something about the war. Let's give ourselves a little more credit, shall we?"

He follows her out the door, quietly reveling in her sustained use of the conspiratorial 'we _'. Yes, we shall._

HHH

 _It was a mistake to come here,_ he realizes as soon as they step out of the grimy inn to the sight of a babbling crowd gathered around two bulletins of a pair of very familiar faces: his own and Azula's.

"A thousand gold coins for the girl and five hundred for her lackey, now there's a fortune," one of the sandbenders comments, muffled voice through his veil betraying the greed behind his masked eyes as he and his companions advance on them.

"Surrender yourself quietly, and we'll get you safely home to daddy, alright sweetheart?" Another burly man with serpent tattoos down his arms croons, leering at Azula. "People will talk, you know, seeing you hanging 'round with such riffraff."

At his side, Azula bristles, as much at the slight to Haru as to herself. " _Riffraff_?" she snarls indignantly. "Well, look who's talking."

If their situation weren't so dire, Haru would probably faint dead away at what amounts to a glowing compliment from Azula. _Oh joyful day, I'm one step above riffraff._

Everyone wants their reward for being in the right place at the right time. They're cornered, encircled, and Haru would rather not start a brawl and risk being caught in the crossfire, unable to escape.

"Uh… gentlemen," he begins. "You might not have had time to do the math, so I'm taking the liberty of helping you out there. Fifteen hundred gold coins _does_ sound like quite a sum until you realize that you'll have to split it between all of you." He gulps nervously, estimating the size of the crowd of bounty hunters hungrily pressing forward. "Comes out to maybe thirty coins each on the outside; not worth the trouble, I'd imagine."

"Thirty gold coins is thirty stiff drinks after a long day of hunting rabble-rousers like you," the sandbender growls, unswayed. "I'd say it's worth it."

"Not if I can help it." Serpent Tattoos has other ideas. "Fifteen hundred is enough for me to retire comfortably, and none of you all is going to get a cut."

 _That's the spirit._ Everyone seems to have the same idea and lofty ambition: singlehandedly bag both of them while fending off fifty others from their prize. Fat chance of that happening. Still, their own chances of escaping unscathed are low at this rate, and he's sure that Azula's tempted to just reduce the whole place to ashes with a sweeping blast of lightning. That would leave them no means of escape, though.

"Any ideas would be welcome," she hisses, drawing a blank herself. Just then, a newcomer arrives to the scene.

"Stop! They are mine," an imperious voice rings out, and ah, not a newcomer at all, but rather Tin-Hinan the Great, silver crescent pendants catching the early morning sun as she strides purposefully towards the edge of the crowd.

Everyone turns to see who the new challenger is, and this is their moment. He yanks Azula down low, close to the ground as he spins violently, throwing out a centripetal blast of sand in all directions and knocking most of the crowd off their feet.

"Come on!" He thinks of nothing but the perilous present as he grabs Azula's hand, the two of them fleeing in Tin-Hinan's direction. Her smile is dark and knowing, stained like the indigo beams of her ship, full to bursting with confidence in her survival and victory, none of which Haru is feeling right now. He'll celebrate when they're safely out of here.

The bounty hunters are still stumbling in their confusion wrought by Haru's sudden dust storm, grappling in the dark and searching for their prey. "Take my sandsailer and take to the desert," Tin-Hinan instructs him. "Remember what I told you."

 _"There is a place deep within the desert where you may find the answers you need."_

"What about you?" At his side, Azula clucks impatiently, and Tin-Hinan shakes her head benignly, a luxurious, slow arc that belies how little time they have before their pursuers catch up.

"You have enough to worry about; do not presume to add me to your list."

"But—"

"Go. If the desert finds you worthy, it will spare you. Take care that you do not repay its mercy with evil. Go!"

* * *

 **TIN-HINAN**

Last night, she had not been sure, but now she has no doubts. Spirit-eyes and his princess may be outsiders, but they at least mean the desert no harm. The Fire Nation as a whole, however, must be stopped, and Tin-Hinan alone can stand in their way.

 _"Why do you call me spirit-eyes?" he asks curiously as he follows her onto the deck of her sandsailer. Under the cold moonlight, she cannot tell what color his eyes are._

 _"Have a guess," she challenges, reminding him of their game. Answers are not cheap in their world._

 _"Well, maybe there's some kind of spirit of the desert tribes that has eyes like mine? That's the only plausible explanation."_

 _She smiles grimly. "Maybe one day you will live to see it."_

That day has come.

The two vagabonds have made it to her sandsailer, but if she does not guard their tailwind, who knows how far they will get. The bounty hunters ( _parasites_ ), temporarily stunned, have regrouped and lope towards her like starving jackals, crazed with gold lust. If they head into the desert, the Fire Nation will follow in pursuit of their fugitives, and it will be the beginning of the end.

 _"They say the Misty Palms Oasis is sustained by spirit magic; that's why the ice doesn't melt. Does it have anything to do with that?"_

 _Oh, he is a bright one. It's a shame he's already spoken for._

The oasis is the only gateway into the desert. Without refilling their water at its doors, no travelers can last long in the hot sands, which is why Tin-Hinan plans on uprooting it.

Slowly, surely, she bends the sands around her to her will, standing at the center of a small cyclone that grows ever wider in circumference, buffeting the crowd around her. Men lose their footing and stumble, then fall to the ground, unmoving, choked by the sand like air in their lungs. It won't be long before they are buried.

None who live in the desert can afford to stagnate, and the oasis itself is an example of that. The tribes move as the wind dictates; it is the only way for them to live. Within the chaotic turbulence of her sandstorm, Tin-Hinan crouches down and calls out, a summons to the one who sleeps.

 _Spirit of the oasis, awaken. You have slept long enough._

The earth rattles, a mountain begins to rise out of the sandy plains, and a breath resonates throughout the land, _is_ the land and the people. Under her feet, it rises, and sand pours off the edge of its surface, burying those who fell beneath it still deeper. They will never be found, and none will follow them.

Beneath her, a vast being blinks into wakefulness, pebble-green eyes sharp and ancient, not bleary with sleep. She stands on its head, separated by a short gorge from the rest of the oasis, the sorry little inn that's little more than rubble now, and the icy springs maintained by the magic of the sleeping lion turtle. She bows low, resting a hand on its surface to steady herself as it surveys its surroundings and the destruction around it.

"Greetings, ancient spirit."

* * *

 **HARU**

"Wow." He has no words for the sight behind them, just as awesome as the desert's expanse before them.

"The oasis was really a giant lion turtle all this time." Azula follows his gaze, watching what used to be the Misty Palms Oasis lumber away into the desert, far in the distance. "And now it's gone."

 _So that was why she called me spirit-eyes. But how was she able to awaken the lion turtle?_

"Why did she help us?" Azula demands, ever suspicious. "You mentioned what she said: nothing in the desert comes without a price."

"It doesn't quite make sense, does it?" He tears his eyes away, leaning back into his sandbending stance and starting up the currents again. They need to get a move on. "She's pinning her hopes on us to find a spirit library hidden in the middle of the desert and a solution that will douse the Fire Nation in the noontide of their strength and prevent them from growing powerful enough to take on the desert, her homeland. It's a lot to gamble, but I suppose she had nothing to lose by helping us either."

"Hm." Azula doesn't sound convinced. "Or she was just so charmed by your gallantry yesterday that she took quite the shine to you."

He squints at her in the periphery of his visual field, trying to deduce her tone. Why would she say something that's so beneath her dignity as a princess? "Are you… jealous?"

"What?" She whips around to glare stonily at him. "Of course not! Don't be ridiculous."

 _Right, of course not._ It's not like he _wanted_ her to be. Frankly, they have more important things to worry about as they enter the desert. He offers his silent thanks to Tin-Hinan, wherever she is now, and a blessing to the desert. May it harbor them without ill will for as long as they must stay.

* * *

 _16 March._ **Journal entry #2. Written by Sokka with contributions from Toph and edits by Katara**

Much has transpired since our first journal, which was… over a month ago now. Sorry about that…anyways, I'd like to devote this entry to describing recent events during our travels (Katara: _obviously, Sokka, that's the whole point of a journal_. Sokka: * _AHEM_ *)

We've just left Gaoling with the fruits of our labor assured. The Beifongs' Earthen Fire Refinery has pledged its aid in securing a literal mountain of iron ore to be transported to the White Lotus armory outside Ba Sing Se. Thanks to Toph's mother strong-arming her wimp of a husband into complying, we've got plenty of raw resources to equip our forces. Toph really does take after her mother. Before we left, we paid a little visit to the Earth Rumble arena where she used to be champion until my hero, THE BOULDER, seized it back from her.

(Editor's note: _to clarify, Toph was the champion of Earth Rumbles V and VI, having won the sixth championship just before leaving with Aang and Zuko. The competition takes place quarterly, and Earth Rumble VII was held three months ago, when Toph wasn't around to participate_.)

Anyways, she wasn't going to take that lying down. We happened to arrive just in time to sign Toph up as a last-minute entrant in Earth Rumble VIII against defending champion and longtime rival THE BOULDER, but Toph issued a special challenge. Basically, she dared all the contenders to take her on at the same time, and every loser (that is, everyone who got knocked out of the ring) would be sworn to join the White Lotus at Ba Sing Se.

Naturally, everyone went wild at the chance to engage and possibly defeat THE BLIND BANDIT, and long story short, they all lost. (Toph: _well, were you expecting any other outcome?_ ) So now they'll be accompanying the ore shipments along with Dad and the other warriors and reporting to White Lotus headquarters on behalf of our efforts against the Fire Nation. All in a day's work (Toph: _you mean, all thanks to me. Toph out._ )

We're in Meikuang now, a coal mining village where Zuko once rescued a couple hundred earthbenders and evicted the Fire Nation squatters by turning into a tree (Toph: _hey! Aang and I helped_. Katara: _I thought you'd signed out?_ Toph: _well, I am_ now.) They were pretty enthusiastic when they heard what we were up to and wanted to join us for the day of Sozin's comet. Zuko must've really inspired them (Toph: _to be honest, his speechmaking skills at the time were terrible, and he didn't even dare to use his real name. I'm pretty sure I should take all the credit for riling them up_. Katara: _why are you still here?_ Toph: _GOODBYE._ )

So we've got quite a following now. Oh, guess what? We saw a wanted poster of Zuko's sister and her accomplice. First of all, the family resemblance is uncanny. Second, Zuko seemed to be under the impression that his sister would never betray the father lord, but she seems to have gone rogue. Does that mean she's switched sides? What's up with her? Also, her accomplice—is that the right word? Sounds too nefarious when we don't even know their intentions yet—is also from Meikuang and got kidnapped away to the Fire Nation before Zuko came along and bailed them all out. It's a small world, isn't it?

Well, not much else to report here. Everything's going pretty swimmingly, a few more stops here and there and I think we'll be good to head to the Northern Air Temple and regroup with Zuko and Aang. I hope they've actually been training and not just over the moon with each other all the time.

SSS

"Spirits, I think we need to start this one over. This time I'll write," Katara remarks, looking over Sokka's shoulder at his garbled transcription of their journal entry.

"Don't you dare!" he says defensively. "We're making history here, and I need to record it exactly as it happened, interruptions and distractions and all. This is how we'll be remembered to future generations."

"As a squabbling trio of teenagers trying to make a difference, no matter how minute?" she says pointedly.

"What are you getting at?"

She sighs. "All these earthbenders we're recruiting, all this ore we're smelting, will any of it really give us an inch of headway against comet-powered firebenders? Will there be future generations to remember us?"

Sokka lays his brush down, quietly fanning the still-damp paper so that the ink dries faster. Despite all his earlier brashness and confidence about the validity of their efforts, he seems to deflate now, less sure of himself.

"I mean…" he begins. "I haven't not been thinking that too. But if I always leave it on my mind, I'll go crazy thinking of how little we can truly do."

Katara nods. She and Sokka understand this at least, both having experienced being the weaker link in a team of matched talents: Katara before she trained properly in waterbending, Sokka without any elemental bending. She doesn't think Toph realizes how powerless they are, having been so invested in the indomitability of her earthbending talent for most of her life. She wonders if Aang and Zuko have considered this as well. They have much to talk about once they return to the Northern Air Temple.

Sokka scrunches up a ruined piece of paper from earlier journaling attempts and sets it aflame with the candle on his desk. "It all comes down to that accursed comet." He tosses the flaming paper to the ground in a parody of Sozin's fiery ball of doom, and the wad of paper gradually burns itself into ash.

"If we were up against regular firebenders on a normal, comet-less day, I'd say we have a chance, what with all the resources the White Lotus is pulling in, with the Avatar on our side. Ba Sing Se can't fall in a fair fight."

"But with the comet, it's a different story entirely."

"So it boils down to: how can we pull the firewood out from under the pot?" Sokka rests his forehead in his palm briefly, frustrated. "How can we eliminate the source of their power and take the advantage?"

She shrugs. "Maybe we could politely ask the comet to go away?"

"I doubt it would be that agreeable. Ooh, maybe you and Zuko could use waterbending to freeze it into ice." Sokka is inspired. "I bet in the Avatar state, he could at least freeze enough ice to hold it still for… maybe a few seconds."

"Yes, because that'll make all the difference."

They come to a defeated caesura, deflecting through humor and a lifetime of biting back their fear with lighthearted words and grim hope. It has sustained them this far.

* * *

 _21 March._ **AZULA**

"Well, looks like this is it." Azula regards the lone spire of the alleged spirit library poking out of the ground, standing bare and lonely amid miles and miles of hot sand.

They've been traveling through the desert for a week, one of the longest of Azula's life but oddly also the lightest and most unburdened. After their escape from the oasis, none of their pursuers had managed to catch their trail, and they blitz through the desert rapidly thanks to Haru's newly learned sandbending. She has to admit she's impressed at how rapidly he's progressed (not out loud, though), even if he attributes their speed to Tin-Hinan's powerful sandsailer. With it, they are able to speed across the desert without delay, the massive dunes doing little to hinder their path. The sandsailer is well stocked with food and water, and with careful rationing, they make it last. Sleeping during the blistering hot days and riding during the night keeps them from losing too much energy and hydration through sweating.

What little of the desert they can see by moonlight awes her: the stark indifference of miles upon miles of sand, all burning hot, all willing to waft over you at the slightest disturbance in the breeze and cover an unwitting soul forever. A wasteland, sentient and godlike in its senseless cruelty. Death means nothing to it.

In spite of all they have weathered, they've finally reached their goal. The majority of the library, including the main entrance, is buried beneath the sand, but there's a small window open in one of the spires. A brief search turns up some sturdy rope in Tin-Hinan's sandsailer, and with bated breath, they shimmy their way up the tower into the depths of the library.

It's eerie and drastically cooler within its stone confines, so silent that Azula can hear her heart pounding furiously in her ears. Down and down they descend, mostly through empty space but sometimes passing long bridges that span a vast gorge, and Azula realizes that to either side of them is the library, stack upon stack of dark, ominous cloisters. Each arch is illuminated only by a single glowing green light unlike any earthly flame. They reach a walled courtyard at the very bottom and touch down lightly, afraid to break the silence.

"Well, I guess we can just walk in and start browsing, no need for a library card?" Haru asks no one in particular.

"That will depend on what you can contribute to my library in return for using its knowledge."

A giant owl regards them stonily from the opposite end of the courtyard, its beady black eyes fathomless and piercing.

"I am Wan Shi Tong, he who knows ten thousand things. And who might _you_ be?"

"Shouldn't you already know, since you know so many things?" Haru retorts flippantly, ignoring the fact that they shouldn't be backtalking to a huge spirit owl while they're still on the wrong side of its cruelly sharp, hooked beak.

"Hmph." The owl spreads its wings and soars lightly to land before them, even more imposing from this close up. " _Humans._ The doings of two such insignificant beings is beneath my knowledge."

"Uh, actually, we're two _extremely_ significant beings; look, we're highly sought after." Haru has the idiocy to whip out their wanted posters from the oasis. "I can't believe you didn't know. You're talking to Crown Princess Azula of the Fire Nation, firebending master _and_ sister of the Avatar, and uh… Haru son of Tyro of Meikuang."

 _Erstwhile earthbending teacher and indispensable friend,_ Azula adds before mentally slapping herself. That's not information a spirit—or anyone, for that matter—needs to know.

"Hm… my knowledge-seekers did not inform me of your identities. This is indeed a serious gap in the breadth of my wisdom that will have to be remedied immediately." Wan Shi Tong examines the posters thoughtfully. With a beckon of his massive wings, he summons a meek-looking fox that takes the posters in its mouth and slinks off into the stacks. "Very well. I will accept your contribution."

He turns to Azula expectantly. "As for you, Crown Princess Azula of the Fire Nation?"

Without fanfare, she reveals from inside her sleeve a plain scroll tied with a red ribbon. "Please accept this original work of art by a famed master." It's the rain dance scroll; Azula has memorized all the forms already, so she has no more need of the text itself.

"Intriguing. My library has been somewhat lacking in the area of interpretive dance," the spirit says appreciatively, though menacing at the same time. "In that case, feel free to peruse my collection, on one condition: you may not misuse the knowledge in this library for the intent of destroying others. The spirits do not engage in human wars, and I expect any visitors to my library to do the same."

Wan Shi Tong fixes them with a long, unnerving stare, empty black eyes challenging them to defy him.

"Technically, we're not destroying anyone," Haru says once they're out of earshot (hopefully) of the spirit. "We're trying to prevent other people from destroying everything. I think he'd be okay with that."

* * *

 **HARU**

Azula tells him to meet back up in three hours and promptly disappears into the stacks without a word, so Haru heads in the opposite direction, wondering how he's meant to know when three hours are up. Maybe he can ask one of these foxes that the spirit apparently uses to collect and file information? Wild.

He wanders around, pulling books at random and trying to steer himself in a direction that might prove useful. The stacks aren't labeled terribly well; perhaps their filing system makes more sense to spirits than to humans. One moment he's reading a book about the tea brewing customs of ancient Air Nomads, and right next to it is a book about Fire Nation mythology specifically dealing with evil water spirits and their appearance near places where victims of drowning died—hm, maybe not the best bedtime reading, that. And just two shelves away from _that_ , he turns up a thick tome dedicated to detailing the intense political controversies during the reign of Earth King Ping, mainly centered around his delusion of actually being one of two twins separated at birth, raised as a commoner, and later secretly brought into the palace to replace his identical twin brother upon his death.

What under heaven…? He closes the book, dismissing it as a load of nonsense. How is he ever going to find anything that might help in this illogically organized library of gloom?

…can spirits read minds? He's pretty sure Azula can, but he definitely wouldn't want Wan Shi Tong overhearing his complaints about the owl's beloved library.

The hours pass, and he finds himself rather thirsty as he browses through the dusty shelves. The air is thin and dry here, and the likelihood of him finding a nice drink is about nil. Sadly, he's left his canteen above ground in the sandsailer. Of all the times to forget an essential need…

A fox materializes at his elbow, peering inquisitively up at him. "Would you happen to have any water?" he asks it.

The fox bounds away, looking over its shoulder at him after a few steps, and he decides to follow it. Before long, he hears the burbling of flowing water, and he hurries forward eagerly.

Before him stands a shallow basin in a wide, brightly lit room, light with no apparent source just glancing off the water as it projects through the air. It's a fountain… in the middle of an underground spirit library. Today really has no end of surprises in store for him.

Cautiously, he approaches—he doubts there are any evil water spirits lurking around here, but just to be safe. He dips a finger in the fountain, but nothing happens.

He has heard legends surrounding water from the spirit world: it's supposed to be magical in its healing powers, though he's not sure how it's meant to be used. Ingesting it doesn't seem to confer any particular sense of well-being, he finds as he cups a mouthful between his palms and drinks, but it tastes fresh.

"Hey, do you think I could take some of this home with me? It's really nice water, my compliments to the owl," he tells the fox, feeling immensely foolish at conversing with an animal. It seems to understand him, though, because after a pause, it brings him a little glass vial strung up like a pendant. He collects some spirit water and tucks it away for safekeeping. Who knows? Maybe it'll come in useful.

* * *

 **AZULA**

The thing about teaming up with Zuko to defeat their father is that he's not going to want just that. There's so much more to the Avatar's job description than just killing the Fire Lord, and Azula's sure that Zuko in all his self-righteous, justice-laden Avatar glory will want to do everything required of him as master of the four elements. Which means that it's Azula's job to figure out how exactly to help him do that.

Killing the Fire Lord is a symbolic act, one meant to decapitate the Fire Nation army and strip it of its hope. Yet even without their head, there is much havoc they can wreak. Ozai has a fleet of airships specifically designed to burn every stretch of land between the west coast and Ba Sing Se to ashes. He has forces trained on the city itself, intended to swarm in once the walls are breached on the day of the comet. Even if he dies, his army will continue without him, flaming bright as the sun until it exhausts itself, and there is no force on earth great enough to stop it.

That's why they've come to a spirit library. If no human force can quench the Fire Nation's fury, perhaps the spirits can be of service.

The library contains a very comprehensive section on the Fire Nation's history, though much of it Azula has studied extensively since childhood. However, some things are new to her, and she browses with care, selecting only those tomes that seem most likely to bear fruit in her search for answers.

Sozin's comet last appeared almost a hundred and fifty years ago on the day of his birth, long before the war began and anyone had the idea of weaponizing the heavens for earthly gain. It is due to return this summer, just three months away. It confers incredible power to the element of fire while it is present in the sky. Legends report firebenders being able to soar to immeasurable heights, evaporate entire lagoons with the heat of their bending, and accurately aim blasts over gorges that span almost a quarter of a mile. Azula wonders if these powers rival even the capabilities of the Avatar state.

The term 'day of Sozin's comet' is somewhat misleading, as the comet's effects are noticeable for a maximum of twelve hours starting at dawn on that day itself, peaking around midday and fading when the sun goes down. That is more than enough time for the Fire Nation to win, though.

She knows enough about her father's plans to predict how thorough the damage will be when all is said and done, but nothing here has yet informed her if there's any way to stop the comet. She sighs and opens the next book, resigned to finding out what she already knows.

This one is a little different in that it doesn't deal with the happenings surrounding the comet. Rather, it tells of another astronomical event that occurred long ago, equally as devastating but in the opposite sense.

 _On the twelfth day of the twelfth month in the seventh year of Fire Lord Sozin's reign, the darkest day in Fire Nation history befell us. The sun was devoured alive, its luminous disc disappearing from the skies and leaving everything under the heavens in darkness. Without its lifegiving rays, the people gnashed their teeth and tore their clothes, weeping in despair, for the sun spirit had forsaken them. All was bleak and desolate, without the slightest hope of redemption._

Azula rolls her eyes at the lurid picture painted therein, skimming the rest of the flowery prose until she finds some more concise commentary by a modern scholar explaining the phenomenon described in the passage.

 _Sozin's early reign was darkened by an inauspicious occurrence: a total solar eclipse, the kind which only takes place once a century at most. The physical explanation for this is that the moon passed in front of the sun, casting its shadow on the ground and preventing any sunlight from reaching the earth. Without the power of the sun spirit, all firebenders were rendered unable to control their element, thus marking this day as the darkest in Fire Nation history. The time elapsed, from the beginning of the full eclipse to the moment a sliver of the sun reappeared, spanned no more than ten minutes, yet it left every firebender in the land totally without their bending._

Azula looks up from the book, the empty halls of the library the only witness to her stunning revelation. It's as if the heavens themselves wish to shower her in good fortune today. She and Zuko had never learned about the solar eclipse from their history books or their court tutors. Azula can guess why her great-grandfather suppressed all knowledge of this event from public records. A paranoid old soul like his would hate for anyone to expose a weakness unique to the entire country.

 _Incredible_. Even astronomers of the other three nations, when taking note of this heavenly disturbance, might not have been aware of its effects on firebenders and thus remained ignorant of the potential advantage it confers over the Fire Nation. Azula knows now, but it remains to be seen what she can do with this knowledge.

She flips ahead, scanning every line for more useful information. According to the author, the next eclipse will not occur for quite some time. Azula does the calculations in her head: it's more than twenty years in the future. There's no chance of relying on an eclipse to magically incapacitate all firebenders in a timely manner. This turned out to be a dead end after all.

There has to be a way, she reasons. The sun is the source of all firebenders' power, this she has known all her life, and so it makes sense that a solar eclipse would be the antithesis of that. But no eclipse is due, and they are running out of time.

 _Perhaps it's possible to manufacture an eclipse,_ she thinks fancifully. _Or shall I just command the sun to stop shining for a bit? The heavens know I've had worse ideas._

Despite the improbability of it all, the longer she stares at the text, the more convinced she becomes.

It is commonly known that there is a spirit who guides the moon, as well as one who steers the sun. Ordinary people have little to do with the spirits themselves, and not much is known about their ancient origins, but one person alive _is_ in a position to communicate with them.

She smiles, the first true spark of hope reemerging after months of running blindly through a thicket of deepening despair. How convenient to have the Great Bridge for a brother, to be able to play a card that their father cannot possibly anticipate, to have a chance at bringing order to this chaotic world.

AAA

Elated with the promise of her discovery, Azula tucks the book under her arm and heads off to meet up with Haru again. For once in all their painstaking travails, they've finally gotten what they came in search of. She finds herself surprisingly satisfied to achieve a goal she's worked hard for—not something that's applied throughout most of her childhood.

"What did you find?" Haru asks when he sees her coming, expression triumphant and winning.

"The solution," she answers cryptically, wanting to tease his curiosity. It's too good to keep to herself, but she'll let him guess for a bit.

"Was it a recipe for a balm that makes you burn-resistant? Because that's just about the only thing I can think of that can help against firebenders. That, or maybe a time machine so that you can resurrect Hou Yi, the great archer of old who shot down nine suns? I figure if he can shoot down suns, he can shoot down a comet," Haru theorizes at random.

"It's debated whether Hou Yi even existed or if he was purely based on legend, so I doubt a time machine would help you there." She hefts the book in her arms to show it to him. "This is the answer. We can't stop the comet, and there's only so much we can do by stopping my father. What we need to do is wipe out the source of all firebenders' power: the sun itself."

"Are you crazy?" He knows the answer to that question even as it slips from his mouth on reflex.

"It wouldn't be permanent. If I can get Zuko on board with this, all he would need to do is convince the spirit guardian of the sun to fabricate an eclipse. Essentially, make the sun stop shining for just long enough to force a surrender at Ba Sing Se."

Azula does have some reservations about the feasibility of this aspect of the plan. She suspects Uncle Iroh has his own agenda, having been inexplicably 'on vacation' for months without any news. In fact, if she recalls correctly, he left shortly after Zuko 'died', and it's possible that he even had a hand in falsifying Zuko's death. Whatever the case, he will not be idle, and if the city is to stand fast before the assault of the comet, they will need his support and expertise.

"Okay, let me see if I've got this right. You're planning to tell Zuko to tell the sun spirit to stop shining so that the firebenders who are expecting to get a magic comet boost end up losing their firebending and either get totally wrecked or surrender themselves, and all's well that ends well?"

"More or less."

"You _are_ crazy. I have no idea if any of that will work, but either way, it's so _you."_

Her breath catches slightly on the fond crinkle of the corners of his eyes as he shakes his head, incredulous, at her audacious plan. "What do you mean?"

"Mad genius, probably going to get us all killed, might work, though, who knows, and totally unpredictable, through and through. What is that if not you in a nutshell?"

"On the contrary…" A dread voice resonates in the hall behind them, unnoticed until now. "Humans are so predictable, and you are no exception."

 _Shit. That busybody owl…_

"You never seek knowledge but to use it for the destruction of others. Knowledge for knowledge's sake? Hmph. Try again." Wan Shi Tong stalks toward them, and they retreat in haste, uneasily aware of the wall at their backs, nowhere to hide in his domain. "So, who are you trying to destroy?"

"Well, ideally, no one," Haru says, ever the peacemaker, trying to reason with an infuriated spirit of knowledge. "Uh… so, we'll just be going now, thanks for letting us use the library."

"Unfortunately, I have other plans." Rearing up to his full height, Wan Shi Tong spreads his wings, vast enough to block out much of the light in his dim hall. "I am bringing my library back to the spirit world. No longer will humans use it for their evil purposes, though you may enjoy it for the rest of your admittedly numbered days."

Around them, the walls begin to shake, dust and sand crumbling from cracks appearing like varicose veins, bulging and unstable. The ground itself seems to be sinking, and the sand accumulating there rises higher and higher like a desiccated tide.

"He's collapsing this place—we've got to get out!" Haru grabs her sleeve, and out of the corner of her eye, Azula sees the end of the rope dangling from the ceiling where they'd let themselves in. Here's to hoping they make it far enough to evade the spirit. "Come on!"

Before they can reach their target, one of Wan Shi Tong's powerful wings knocks the rope loose. They duck aside, fleeing towards the cloisters, but apparently spirit owls have detachable necks, and all of a sudden, Wan Shi Tong's sharp beak and abyss-like eyes are way too close for comfort.

She yanks Haru aside, rolling for cover behind a massive statue, and this isn't good. They're trapped in this collapsing library at the mercy of a deranged owl, bound to be buried along with the knowledge they've gained, forever lost to history.

No. She won't let it end like this.

"Give me some cover," she hisses even as the accursed owl snakes its neck around in search of them.

"What?"

"Anything, just distract it for a moment!" She leaps out from their hiding place, running for the center of the circular hall, gazing skywards at where that one sliver of daylight inexorably recedes, and with it, their hope of escape. Behind her, Haru rallies all his force into pelting the owl with a volley of sand and stone, temporarily blinding it, though this also serves to further enrage it.

She gauges the distance. It's a long way to fall, but their lives are at stake here. There's no time to lose. She tenses her body, willing all the energy she can to spread through her, and slowly, she lifts off the ground, the jets of flame under her feet sustaining her flight through the air.

"Do keep up, Haru!" she calls over the pandemonium, and he looks up to find her a dozen feet in the air already and accelerating. _Come on!_

He thinks fast and moves faster, and if Azula's being quite honest with herself, she's noticed and admired that from the beginning. The way his earthbending suffuses his whole body, letting him gracefully integrate himself into a dizzying arc through the air, propelling himself onto the owl's freakishly long neck and staying steady even as it flails. Forty feet up and counting now, she slows her ascent long enough for him to spring into motion and catch her around the waist, the two of them suspended in the air with nothing but her firebending to buoy them.

"Why is it that I always get stuck lugging your deadweight?"

"Shut up and concentrate on getting us out of here!"

It's easier said than done, with Haru knocking them every which way, flinging bits and pieces of the collapsing architecture to deter Wan Shi Tong's dogged pursuit. A hundred feet, and she can see the window—

A furious squawk from the owl as his prey eludes him—

 _Come on Azula_

And then they are sailing out, out to blistering sands and endless sun and freedom and safety, collapsing in an exhausted pile while the tip of the library disappears into the ground, no trace of its existence remaining at all.

She catches her breath, rolls over, and loses it again at Haru grinning back at her, deliriously happy at their escape, more than a little hysterical from adrenaline. She lets herself laugh with him, unrestrained, genuine, and unfamiliar with this kind of pure, silly joy.

 _It's wonderful_ , she thinks when she's had a moment to calm down. _It's wonderful to be alive with you._

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading! The notes discuss Tin-Hinan, her motives for destroying the oasis, how they relate to the Tuareg people's lifestyle, the plans for Sozin's comet, and an awesome Chinese drama that you should all watch ;) Read them here. archiveofourown dot org /works/7019827/chapters/43516451


	11. ZUKO, AZULA: Qingming Festival

_18 March._ **ZUKO**

The door slides open, and Zuko shuts his eyes even though Aang can tell from his breathing that he's awake. He doesn't want to have this conversation now, possibly ever.

Muted footsteps across the room; Aang pinches out the lone evening candle still illuminating the space and sits down on the edge of the bed. From the far side, the shift of his body tugs gently at the blanket, but Zuko resists its pull, wanting the excuse of distance.

The silence stretches into strained tension, Aang's breaths matching his own, and Zuko finally speaks. "Just say whatever you mean to say, or we'll be like this all night."

It's unnecessarily harsh, but Aang will probably let it go since he's so good at doing just that.

"I…" Aang hesitates, a slight tremble to his voice. "I don't know what to say."

"You _always_ know what to say, what to do," Zuko shoots back. "Sometimes I wonder why you're not the Avatar instead of me."

"Maybe in another universe."

Outside, the long, doleful cry of a red-crowned crane splits the night air, then an answering call from closer by. _Do not forget me, my love; do not leave me behind._ If birds could speak the words that he and Aang shy away from.

"You're angry with me for letting go of you so easily."

Ah, _now_ they're getting somewhere. "Wrong," Zuko says crisply, almost smug at Aang's incorrect answer. "Try again."

"You're angry with me for suggesting that you should be able to let go of me."

"Wrong again." This is rather fun. He feels like a guru with his apprentice, giving increasingly obfuscating answers and serving only to frustrate his pupil. Much like Guru Pathik, who departed the mountain shortly after Zuko's inability to open the chakras, citing the importance of self-reflection and effectively washing his hands of the whole miserable affair.

"Then what?"

Zuko sits up. He looks levelly across at Aang, annoyed at having to explain his own shortcomings. "I'm angry with myself for not being able to let go of you. As the Avatar, I know that I should be capable of this. I have to." He sighs. "This whole failure thing isn't new to me, and yet I'm just as ill-adapted to it as I've always been."

"Zuko…" Aang begins reprovingly.

He holds up a hand for silence. "I don't think this is something you can help me with, Aang, unless you somehow make me stop loving you."

Aang must know that's impossible. And for as long as that holds true, he will never be able to use the Avatar state, to the detriment of the world.

* * *

 _30 March._ **HARU**

"If I never see another grain of sand in my life, it will be too soon."

They're finally leaving the desert, the land around them transitioning to dry grass and scrub, and within the last few miles, they've actually seen a couple of trees. Trees! Can you imagine? Haru never dreamed he would one day celebrate such a minor phenomenon, for the love of trees.

They've had to abandon the sandsailer at the edge of the desert and proceed on foot, arriving at the shores of a vast river after a few days. It's too wide for any bridge to ford it, but an old bargeman takes pity on them and offers to ferry them across.

"What were you young fools doing in the desert, eh? You're hardly half the age you should be to go looking for death already."

"It's none of your business," Azula says tightly.

"Uh, well, we were just… searching for enlightenment," Haru hastens to compensate for her. "The desert's a lovely place, you know, it really inspires a lot of existential thoughts."

"Huh! Sure does make you question why your mother bothered bringing your idiotic self into existence, I'll bet," their ferryman says in scorn. He squints more closely at them, sun-wrinkled eyes narrowed to suspicious lines. "Why do I feel the two of you look familiar?"

"We met in another lifetime, undoubtedly one in which you were much less garrulous." Azula blows out an irritated breath, stalking away to the opposite edge of the long barge to put what little distance she can between herself and the talkative bargeman.

"Hm…" He doesn't sound convinced. Haru starts to feel uneasy, theorizing as to where he might have encountered Haru and Azula. Sure enough, his suspicions are confirmed.

"You two wouldn't happen to have a big sum on your head, would you? Far as I know, that bastard flamehead yonder—" he waves vaguely west in the direction of the Fire Nation some thousand miles away, "is _very_ interested in acquiring two people matching your descriptions, and he's willing to pay."

Quick as the strike of a serpent, Azula's right hand is in motion, blue fire blossoming to life as the bargeman gapes, perhaps not expecting his words to actually bear fruit. Fortunately Haru anticipates her action, catching her wrist and redirecting the blast into the water, where it melts away in an instant.

"Idiot, he's going to turn us in!"

"Oh, no, no, no, this old man is not going to be chasing down criminals for any reward, no matter how handsome," he assures them quickly. "Do I look like I could overcome either of you young souls? I wouldn't even bother; she'll snap you up soon as you set foot on the far shore."

Haru lets go of Azula, then registers what the old man has said. "Who?"

* * *

 **AZULA**

"That's her," Azula reports from their place on the sidelines of the rowdy tavern's center.

"I can't see her, remember?" Haru snaps under his breath, loud enough for her to hear in the hubbub. Azula's disguised them creatively, blindfolding Haru to obscure his telling eyes and redoing his hair into a long braid—reminds her of doing Ty Lee's hair when they were young. She's massively out of practice, likely why he's so grumpy. "And do you really think people aren't going to suspect you wearing a giant grinning blue demon mask?"

The Blue Spirit mask hardly stands out here. There are all sorts in this seedy Earth Kingdom dive, shady figures wearing all manner of ridiculous garb, half-masks, face tattoos, odd veils and piercings—they're not in the minority with their appearance. It seems to be an unspoken rule: ask no questions and you'll be told no lies.

"All the better that you can't see her. We don't need any distractions." She focuses her gaze on the center of the room's attention: a woman in a form-fitting black dress and riding gloves, her hair done up into a half-knot secured by a coronet with a grinning skull for a centerpiece—very tasteful. She's clearly some kind of feminine wunderkind, winning round after round of arm-wrestling with increasingly burlier and intoxicated men.

A minor brawl breaks out spontaneously over an accusation of cheating. Without breaking a sweat, the woman knocks out three opponents twice her girth, slugs another in the gut so thoroughly that he's winded, and kicks the last one _over her shoulder_ (that dress is clearly meant for riding and fighting, not sitting and looking pretty; Azula approves strongly), all without dropping her teacup.

 _Now that's my kind of lady,_ she can imagine Haru saying. She brushes the thought off, not caring to explore why she would ascribe that kind of nonsense to him. There's work to be done.

"Who's next?" the woman demands. "Can any of you weaklings give me a challenge? Or do I have to take all this home with me tonight?" She gestures expansively at the piles of coins lining the table, her winnings from throughout the night.

"It's your time to shine." Azula pushes Haru slightly forward into the spotlight.

She insinuates her way to the edge of the crowd to watch from the sidelines as Haru takes his place. He's strong, but not strong enough to defeat her outright. He'll have to give off the appearance of having done so, though, and for that, he'll need a little spark to get things started.

"Why don't we make the stakes a little more personal?" Haru suggests. "If I win, you help me find someone I've been searching the world for."

"And if _I_ win?" she asks archly. "What then?"

He leans in to whisper so that only she can hear. "If you win, _I'll_ help you find them."

June the bounty hunter did not earn her fame from brute strength alone. She raises a skeptical eyebrow, slowly inferring more than what's being said.

"I promise you, it will be worth your while. Quantitatively, very much worth your while," Haru reassures.

She's interested, at least, and that's a start. Now, to give her no way of backing out.

Azula snags an unattended cup of tea from down the table, deliberately placing it closer to the center of the spectacle even as she hovers by the two participants, hands now linked in the match. She bides her time, leaning on the edge of the table and watching as the back of Haru's hand inches ever closer to level, his defeat imminent.

No need to draw this out. With careful aim, she shifts her hips to nudge the teacup off the table, spilling its contents on the floor. She ducks down to retrieve it, unnoticed by the crowd focused on the match. Her face is level with June's sleek black riding boots, and it is so easy to summon the slightest flicker of lightning to her fingertips and send it towards the sliver of a pale thigh peeking out from between the slits in that lovely, long dress.

Azula has been working on her control lately, recognizing the need to use lightning in situations that aren't characterized as 'destroy-everything-in-sight-or-die.' Sometimes it pays to have more of a pocket weapon, efficient but untraceable. June won't know what hit her, or at worst, she'll think it's a particularly vicious gadfly.

Haru senses the twitch and laxity in June's grip milliseconds after the shock, and he reacts as quickly as the lightning itself, redoubling his strength in a sudden onslaught and pushing through one long power stroke to slam June's hand down onto the table with finality and gusto. _Perfect._

June stares, as close to losing her composure as she will ever get, lips pursed tightly but not agape, teeth clenched but relaxed enough to not lose them if an aggressive punch should land on her jaw. She is primed to fight, she knows what just went down wasn't a fair fight, and by God, she will see justice served right here, right now.

Haru heads her off, lifting the blindfold off one side in a breath's pause, a verdant ( _inimitable_ ) eye winking insouciantly over June's shoulder at Azula. Then the blindfold is back in place, June slowly standing, turning in place as if to regard the tavern at large, but really to verify that before her now are two fugitives of the Fire Nation, and that they hold the potential to lead her to an even bigger prize than what's on the table before them.

She doesn't like sharing, so she follows them out quietly.

AAA

"Why should I help you?"

"You're not in this for the money, at least not entirely," Azula observes, having shed the Blue Spirit mask under cover of evening's fall outside. "Otherwise you'd have knocked us out immediately and cashed in your prize at the nearest Fire Nation army outpost."

"I can still do that." June sneers down at her. Nearby, her giant shrew-like steed paces the ground nervously, its long-barbed tongue twitching back and forth as if searching for a target.

"But you won't," Haru says, confident in her response. "Or at least you won't once you've heard us out."

"Who says I have to do that at all? You're no match for me and Nyla." She's a quick draw, a long whip materializing in her hands and seeking to curl its cruel embrace around them, the giant shirshu reacting in kind and moving much faster than its tonnage would suggest. Haru catapults himself out of the way, Azula equally as light on her feet.

"Ah, ah, ah," she cautions, lightning brewing briefly between her poised hands, subtle but promising. "I wouldn't, if I were you. What you felt back there at the inn was just a little taste."

June reigns in the shirshu sharply. "What do you think I'm interested in, then, if not money? I won't help you for nothing."

"You're curious as to why we sought you out instead of the other way around, aren't you?" Haru jingles the weighty sack of coins he'd gathered after June's defeat and tosses it to her. She catches it, her gesture full of confusion and reluctance to admit the truth to two fugitives who seem to have the advantage over her.

"Consider it a token of good faith," he says. "If you help us, there's the chance of raking in a dozen times that much in bounty money."

"Oh?" Her mind is already turning over the possibilities, who could bring in that much money, and why Haru and Azula would want to capture them if not for material gain.

"More likely than not, once you figure out who it is, you'll waive your reward," Azula says severely, withdrawing a sheathed dagger from inside her sleeve. The inscription reads: 'Never give up without a fight.' "If you have a conscience, anyways. Here's a scent sample."

Still suspicious, June presents the hilt of the dagger to the shirshu's wrinkled snout. At once, it rears up on its hind legs, impatient to get going.

"Hmph. I may as well see what's got you two so mysterious," she concedes. "Well, come on then, Angry Princess and Lousy Cheat. Let's see who comes out with the better end of this deal."

Azula smiles, a narrow twitch of lips to match the wryness of June's wary cooperation. _Bet's on us._

And so they set off to hunt the Avatar.

* * *

 _4 April._ **ZUKO**

Days pass. The Northern Air Temple drowses in the wholesome spring air, seedlings sprouting along the terraces of the Mechanist's ingenious design. The village resumes the routine that was slightly thrown off by the guru's visit. Aang goes back to instructing starry-eyed young children in the ways of his forebears, but Zuko doesn't have the heart to join them, knowing that his own spiritual enlightenment in no way compares to theirs.

Qingming Festival arrives, and with it Lu Ten's birthday. Aang follows him down the mountain in bemusement as he searches for some inscrutable point along the path.

"Here," he says at last, about halfway down at a hairpin bend nestled into the side of the cliffs. "This is about where we were when Lee and I ascended to the temple and he told me about how Hanyu and Lu Ten sang the tides of that battle into sparing all their lives."

Zuko kneels before a natural outcropping of slate granite, pressing both hands to the wall and morphing the stone into a more defined shape. The rock forms itself into a stately headstone as high as his chest, a hollow circle adorning it at mid-height, and under one careful finger, characters etch themselves into its bare surface.

Lu Ten

Azure Dragon of the East

Brother, son, beloved

He wonders if it is too presumptuous to carve into being those denominators claimed by others. But if Uncle Iroh and Hanyu were here, they would probably agree: Lu Ten lived and died as selflessly as possible. He defined himself in terms of his relationships and what he could give to them and to others, that is, everything of himself, until the very end.

* * *

 **AANG**

"I wish you could have met him," he tells Aang. "He was everything I am not: talented, confident, inspiring, selfless."

Aang stands by silently, and Zuko must know what he wants to say, the words he wants to offer in comfort, but he holds his tongue, knowing also what grief Zuko needs to succumb to, however briefly.

He bows before the headstone, forehead pressed to his hands on the ground, venerating the dead in broad daylight as if afraid that night will bring their shadows to confront him and his perceived shortcomings.

"It's funny: I was raised with him as a role model, yet look how selfish I turned out," Zuko says sardonically, rising to stand again. "Unable to tear myself away from the other half of my heart, even for the sake of the uncertain future of the world."

"There will be a way, Zuko," Aang says, finally giving in to the urge to cut off Zuko's self-derogatory spiel, tired of listening to him hurt himself. Someone has to hand him reality in the most matter-of-fact way. He suspects Toph would be better for this job, but she's not here. "Either you figure out that letting me go doesn't mean to stop loving me. Or, you ignore the whole chakras deal entirely and figure out how to defeat the Fire Lord without the Avatar state. One or the other, it _will_ be resolved."

Zuko doesn't look convinced, and Aang sighs, his heart aching for this barrier that's sprung up between them.

 _Maybe time will heal this wound,_ he thinks. _But what if it doesn't happen soon enough?_

* * *

 **HANYU**

 _"I'm not going to hurt you," the silhouette in the doorway of the supply closet promises. As his eyes adjust to the light, Hanxin makes out his features: a young man with a wide, honest mouth, somewhat at odds with the intensity of stark cheekbones and large eyes that regard Hanxin intently._

 _"I'm Lu Zhao, General Iroh's aide. He asked me to look out for you before anyone else caught you," he says, gesturing at Hanxin's hiding place. "Come with me."_

 _Hanxin follows, dismally aware that his life is in this man's hands and he could be leading him to his demise. He took that risk when he first stowed away on General Iroh's ship, hoping to leave behind a battlefield that holds only memories of the departed now._

 _They arrive at a room with a heavy bolted door, but inside is nothing as nefarious as Hanxin had expected. It's a modestly comfortable suite, the living quarters of a ship's captain, and he frowns at Lu Zhao questioningly._

 _"The general has already left. He slipped off yesterday when we went ashore to restock the water supplies, but he only told me of his plans to wander the world. The crew is better off not knowing; they'd want to stop and search for him, and he made it expressly clear that he wanted to go alone." Lu Zhao shrugs in resignation, universal language for "my superior officer is a fool, but I have to support him in his foolish endeavors." Hanxin knows that feeling well._

 _"You might as well stay. There's no point in going hungry and cold when there's food and an empty bed here for you. I have to keep bringing meals anyways to maintain the illusion that General Iroh is still with us." He indicates the table spread with an ample meal of soup, rice, and a few small dishes. These past few days hiding in the bowels of the ship have tested the patience of Hanxin's stomach, and it vocally makes its desires known._

 _"No one else is allowed inside, so you'll be safe," Lu Zhao reassures him, but still, Hanxin hesitates. After the anguish of Lu Ten's death and the shock of losing practically everything that's been his identity for the past three years, this act of kindness is jarring and foreign to him._

 _Lu Zhao's gaze softens, warmer and sadder now. "You don't speak, do you? General Iroh told me that you were Lieutenant Colonel Lu Ten's adjutant and most valuable man. I'm sorry for your loss."_

 _Hanxin prickles a little at that, irrational in defense of his grief, as grief is._ Are you really, now?

 _"We knew each other when we were younger," Lu Zhao continues. "He wouldn't have mentioned me—he had a far greater impact on my life than I on his, undoubtedly, but I've always admired him."_

HHH

Hanyu opens his eyes suddenly, shocked into wakefulness. It's been a while since he's dreamed about that liminal time between the last battle at Ba Sing Se and arriving back home in Kanto. Meeting General Iroh and Lu Zhao on the ship had been unexpected, but thanks to them, he made it home alive.

He sits up, sucking in long, deep breaths through his nose. It means nothing; it was just a dream. Lu Ten is dead, General Iroh wanders the earth without succor for his broken heart, and he does not know what became of Lu Zhao after returning to the Fire Nation. Probably went back to his own home as well, changed by a war he went into with high spirits.

Hanyu slips out of bed, not wishing to dwell any longer on the past. The joints of the bed creak minutely, and he wonders if it's time to replace the bamboo weave or risk having it give out under him. He passes his _erhu_ on its stand on his way to rekindle the fire and gives its strings a tweak. The tone is flat, the strings slackening as spring starts to warm the air. He'll have to tune it once he's properly awake.

A single blue glass dragon regards him sternly from atop his tea cupboard. Does he still have _longjing_ leaves in here? Nothing else really wakes him up on these muggy late spring days, summer's idea of a standard-bearer. Nope, the jar turns up a few paltry leaves at the bottom—he'll have to go into town today, bother.

HHH

 _Lu Zhao brings paper, ink, and brush for him, but Hanxin keeps his silence, thinking that if he starts, he will not stop. He does write his name down for Lu Zhao's benefit, but it feels odd, as if Hanxin is not him anymore, as if he died with Lu Ten that day._

 _Slowly, he warms to Lu Zhao. The young man puts him at ease in a way that he has not felt since the last battle, stopping by whenever he's not busy to make sure Hanxin doesn't need anything, and often just to talk, at length and without reservation, about Lu Ten._

 _"I was five years old when I met him. My father was a minor official appointed by General Iroh. We're from Xu province, southwest of the capital. The previous governor had been executed for accepting bribes, and my father was commended by the general for his excellent work despite serving under such a corrupt official. My family owes everything to him—before that, we hadn't been particularly eminent._

 _"My father traveled to the capital to accept his promotion in person, and he brought me with him to see for the first time the nation's finest, hoping that I would one day follow in his footsteps. We arrived during late winter, just before the new year, so General Iroh entreated us to stay for a couple months and meet important names in the capital. He lodged us in a wing of his own imperial manor, where I met Lu Ten._

 _"Lu Ten was six, and he was sucking on a piece of hard candy when I first saw him. It was light orange in color…" Lu Zhao pauses, memories faint from years elapsed. "Was it mango flavored? Or honey? Toffee? Peach-nectarine? I don't recall, but in any case, it was something light orange."_

Papaya, _Hanxin thinks vehemently,_ did you even know him, his favorite flavor in childhood was papaya and nothing else. I know this because _he told me, and I remember_.

 _Nothing escapes Lu Zhao, including Hanxin's petty internal monologue, and he laughs lightly, moving on. "Whatever the flavor, I was incredibly curious and a little jealous. Lu Ten noticed and asked if I wanted some too, which of course I did—I was a poor little country bumpkin who'd never had such luxuries. Unfortunately, his mother had given him the last one, so I was prepared to act graciously unaffected. Of course Lu Ten being Lu Ten, he noticed right away how sad I looked and asked if I wanted the one he was eating."_

Why does that not surprise me at all?

 _"And so he passed the candy into my mouth. It was delicious and sweet and freely given, just like everything else he gave of himself to the world."_

 _Of course it was. Hanxin has received more than his fair share, but now the bounty has come to an end._

HHH

"Lotus blossoms! Get your fresh lotus blossoms here! Just picked from the lake, still in water, fresh as fresh can be!"

Normally Hanyu wouldn't stop for trinkets like this, but it's Qingming Festival today, and he can use the flowers, so he buys a dozen. The young woman hawking the freshest lotus blossoms in town has a face as spirited and rosy as the flowers she sells, the picture of spring youth, a bygone memory for Hanyu even if he's not much older.

Back home, he sets a pot of water to boiling and scoops several handfuls of glutinous rice into a steamer. As it cooks, he washes the lotus flowers under running water, plucking the large petals from their stems. Each one is as large as his palm, dusky pink and smoothly waxy in texture, the water rolling off of them like rain off of glass windowpanes. He's seen glass windows, certainly, though his own homestead does not boast such grandeur.

Five years ago, after he'd arrived home from the war, this house had barely been inhabitable, his master Old Man Song having passed away in his absence with no one to leave his meager possessions to. Only recently has he had the motivation to fix it up beyond the bare essentials, fixing that squeaky door, restoring his master's finely crafted instruments, constructing a proper bed, documenting his memoirs from the war. He's not sure why he bothers; certainly no one is going to visit him here in his depressing bereavement. Zuko's unexpected appearance a few months ago startled him, though, knocking his routine into mayhem for a night, and he's been on edge since then, wondering what other upstarts will disturb him in times to come.

HHH

 _He's grateful for Lu Zhao, despite the initial unease of having a stranger be so privy to his raw, recent grief. Hanxin's surprised to find that it brings some small joy to listen to stories of Lu Ten and discover new things about the one he loved. It helps to smooth over his open wounds, though he doubts they will ever really heal._

 _"By nature of his place in life as a prince, he didn't have many friends," Lu Zhao observes. He leans over to steal the sheet of paper that Hanxin is ignoring, his hands needing something to do. "All the capital bigwigs introduced their children in the hopes of getting some face time with his father, the future Fire Lord, but they were painfully aware and, on some level, afraid of his royal status. With that understanding in mind, they could never be true friends."_

 _He starts to fold the paper, creases long and even, the pads of his fingers blanching against the tabletop as he presses down. "And then in blundered me, son of a newly aristocratic upcomer, completely blind to the mores of conduct before a royal prince. Maybe that's why he took to me—because I wasn't afraid of him? I'm amazed he ended up as well-adjusted as he did. From what I heard later in the war, he took to the command of the 18_ _th_ _regiment like a fish to water."_

There was a steep learning curve, if I recall correctly. _Hanxin thinks drily of how ill at ease Lu Ten had been when he'd first met his soldiers: less like a fish in water and more like a confused mother turtle-duck with very unruly ducklings_.

 _The folded paper in Lu Zhao's hands resolves itself into the shape of a butterfly, paper wings crinkled and a little droopy, as if it's just emerged from its cocoon, a new life ready to fly forth into the unknown. He hands it to Hanxin, who feels his throat tighten briefly at what will never come to pass._

 _"Eventually, my father and I returned home. Lu Ten and I saw each other sporadically for a few years when General Iroh would travel the country on his princely duties, overseeing the construction of major new routes, the distribution of disaster relief materials and such. He took his business seriously and often brought his son with him to learn the ways of governing people from distant walks of life._

 _"I was just glad to see my friend. He always had time for me, whether it was to critique my firebending progress, or play at sword forms, or to compose a special poem to help me woo the loveliest girl in town. No, it didn't work," Lu Zhao answers Hanxin's unspoken question. "She still rejected me, but probably because my presentation was so awkward, not because Lu Ten's poetry was terrible."_

HHH

When the rice is soft and fragrant, he folds the lotus petals into the mix. With a mortar and pestle, he grinds two cubes of distiller's yeast into fine powder, reconstituting them with water and sprinkling the mixture over the rice. It's a sticky business, but he mixes and molds it until he's satisfied that everything is evenly distributed and dumps the whole batch into a large earthenware urn. He seals the jar and hefts it in his arms. It's a little heavy, but he doesn't mind the weight as he carries it to a slight hill half a mile away from his house.

Here stands a plain tombstone, three feet high and two across, a circular window bored through the center about a hand's breadth wide. At the top are inscribed two names. Hanyu has never found the right words to fill up the rest of the space, so he lets the blank face of the stone reflect his heart and its immeasurable, empty maw.

Lu Ten

Hanxin

Hanxin died in the war when he failed to live up to the faith Lu Ten had in him, failed to save the one he loved and came crawling home by himself instead. Hanxin is dead; Hanyu buried him here with Lu Ten and lives on in bitter homage.

With a hand spade, he excavates a small hole deep enough to bury the jar fully, placing a few lotus leaves over the top before reinterring the dirt. He'll let it ferment here for a couple months or so. In the meantime, he commemorates the beloved dead.

HHH

 _"We kept in touch through letters, but that habit faded with time," Lu Zhao says a little wistfully. "I didn't see Lu Ten again until he showed up on our doorstep with his young cousin, Prince Zuko, in tow."_

 _He pours them each a shallow bowl of wine from a flagon. Apparently, the crew have been growing restless after so many days without seeing a shadow of their general. Lu Zhao's had to break into Iroh's private stores and distribute a healthy amount of liquor to quell their discontent ("What the general doesn't know won't hurt him, though I don't think he'd care")._

 _Hanxin sips at the wine, hardly tasting it. There is a faint hint of lotus in its bouquet, a touch of dewy fragrance that recalls limpid ponds and tranquility. He advances one tile on the pai sho board between them, Lu Zhao's idea of an evening pastime. Hanxin isn't sure what move he's just played and what it means for his chances, but Lu Zhao hm's contemplatively, eyes narrowed in concentration._

 _"Zuko was sick, they needed a place to stay, and Lu Ten was beating himself up over letting his cousin fall ill and not knowing how to properly care for him." He lets one hand hover over the elephant tile, then changes his mind and switches to the chariot. "For once, I was able to help him instead of the other way around. They stayed with us for about a month that spring."_

 _Hanxin estimates this took place a year before he met Lu Ten, before they went to war and all good times were subsumed. He drinks to that memory, draining the bowl, and Lu Zhao refills it for him._

 _"My father had taught me everything there was to know about his office in preparation to succeed him someday. Lu Ten observed my facility with accounts and correspondence and promised to recommend me to his father. I was thrilled at the opportunity, as I'd always longed to enlist and see other lands beyond the Fire Nation."_

So did I, and wasn't that a mistake after all?

 _"We spent long days together while Zuko was still recovering, debating the finer details of government and the ethics of war, fighting battles on paper. We spent long nights together too, fueled by this same vintage." He taps the flagon of wine. "It's popular back home; General Iroh took a liking to it too. Your move," he reminds Hanxin, dogged in his determination to adhere to proper gameplay._

 _Hanxin prods a randomly selected tile forward a few spaces in what probably will prove to be an ill-advised move._

 _"This kind of reminds me of those times," Lu Zhao says. Hanxin looks up from the board, surprised to find his expression quietly fond and unassuming. "This, you know…"_

 _He stretches a careless hand at Hanxin, at the board, the wine, the remnants of their dinner and the shadows the yellow flames cast over the room. Hanxin believes that the phrase Lu Zhao is so ineptly looking for is 'found family.' His own is lost, though, to death's immortal grip, impossible to wrench back from beyond the grave._

HHH

Hanyu has saved two of the lotus flowers to lay before Lu Ten's memorial tablet. The fire lilies haven't bloomed yet, but the fields around here will be rampant with their splendor in a couple months, so he can enjoy them then. He'll share the lotus wine with Lu Ten when it's done, just as Lu Zhao did long ago. Normally, he doesn't let himself come to the memorial more than twice a year: once on Qingming Festival and once on Mid-Autumn Festival. Both days are meant for family to celebrate together, but this is as close as he's got.

He knows he shouldn't visit more often. The more time he spends before the tombstone, the less time he spends fulfilling the letter of Lu Ten's last command: "Keep on living." When he first placed the tablet here, just weeks after returning home, he spent perhaps two or three days straight kneeling in contemplation, lost to the world, lost to his own mind, searching only for the missing half of his heart. Time, exhaustion, hunger, thirst, all became immaterial to him until his parched eyes brought him a vision of Lu Ten standing before him, alive and well.

"Keep on living." He knows it was not real, just a hallucination of his grieved psyche, but he still listens and obeys. He goes home, does his best to forget about the Lu Ten that is not Lu Ten, and avoids going near that place for another few months. He continues living his life as best he can without his voice and his heart.

Technically he's breaking his own rule by burying the wine here, because he'll have to come back later to unearth it. It won't take long, though, and he won't linger. It will be fine.

HHH

 _"The rest is as you know," Lu Zhao pronounces a little thickly. They've worked their way through most of the bottle, Lu Zhao having stayed longer than usual. "Lu Ten became the Fire Nation's star young commander, and I got promoted somewhat less meteorically to General Iroh's senior aide."_

 _He looks down at the board, getting little in the way of a response from his absent conversational partner. "Ah, might as well give it up. We'll never get anywhere without the lotus tile. I think General Iroh took it with him before he left—no idea why, do you know?"_

 _Hanxin shrugs; it's just as much of a quandary to him._

 _"Playing against Lu Ten was more fun," Lu Zhao grumbles, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "One time I lost the lotus tile from my set and he just happened to have a spare. Why he kept one with him—maybe it's a family tradition to always carry a lotus tile for good luck. Or maybe it's made of gold?"_

 _Inspired (by excess consumption, most likely), he tests this theory, picking up a tile and taking a stoic crack at it between his incisors like a piece of candy. Hanxin hides a snort behind one hand as wood and lacquer splinter everywhere and Lu Zhao spits out the pieces in a hurry._

 _"Ha, ha, very funny—I had to try," Lu Zhao defends himself against Hanxin's laughter, now seeping out in short, uncontrollable bursts. He watches in surprise as for the first time, Hanxin smooths out a piece of paper over the table, picks up a brush, and dips it in ink, prepared to speak._

\- You were his first kiss -

 _"I… uh, uh, well I…" he stutters unflatteringly, not having anticipated this reveal and unsure how to react, how Hanxin intends to frame this._

 _Hanxin quirks a glance at his disproportional overreaction._

\- I was thinking of the candy incident -

 _"Oh!" Lu Zhao relaxes. "Now you mention it… yes, technically_ that _was our first."_

\- But _you_ were thinking of the long spring nights spent together in Xu years ago, weren't you? -

 _Caught out, Lu Zhao covers his face and groans. It's overwhelmingly obvious that Hanxin wasn't made Lu Ten's right-hand man in the war for nothing. The amount of information he's gleaned from one slipped reaction is telling._

 _"Yes, I was his first kiss, among others," he admits. "But we were only ever friends figuring things out for the first time, not lovers leaking our hearts' depths to each other. And I suppose you were his last?"_

 _He means it flippantly, a teasing riposte, but it cuts Hanxin to the core. He lowers his eyes to the table, the brush still and unmoving, unused ink dripping onto the paper._

 _"You really were." Lu Zhao backtracks quickly, ashamed. "The world was too cruel to him and to you. I'm… so sorry."_

 _Hanxin shakes his hand, reaches over to set one consoling hand on Lu Zhao's shoulder, and he quiets, bereft of any more words to offer._

 _One month later, Lu Zhao dismisses the night watch and sneaks him off the ship under cover of darkness as they pass within hailing distance of Hanxin's hometown. His parting words are brief and hushed, sensing that Hanxin's heart is adrift and unlistening even as he returns home. Hanxin folds his hands together and bows in a last salute before stepping into the light rowboat._

 _"Maybe one day we'll see each other again," Lu Zhao says, helpless against the rush of nostalgia, torn over having to sever the silk string bond they'd developed sharing their secrets as two who loved Lu Ten boundlessly._

Maybe, _Hanxin thinks as Lu Zhao lets the small boat down the side of the ship._ But can we together ever muster more than a shadow of the liveliness that he brought us and then took with him?

 _He watches the ship's departing trajectory long after it disappears beyond sight, aware that he is now incontrovertibly, tragically alone._

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Writing notes discuss mostly inspiration for stuff Hanyu does throughout the chapter, as well as Lu Zhao's origins: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/44404657


	12. LU TEN: Freedom Fighter

**A/N:** Dear readers, there is a warning for this chapter involving an under-18 character kissing an over-18 character in the first section. The scene is not prolonged and does not progress to sexual activity. If this upsets you, please don't feel compelled to read this chapter! I won't be offended. But please also don't send death threats or any hateful comments, 'cause remember these are fictional characters and I am a real person. If you have clarifying questions, you can comment or reach me at Tumblr the-cloud-whisperer. Thanks for understanding!

* * *

 _30 March._ **JET**

The days are getting longer and warmer. It feels like early summer one evening, a few weeks after they leave the swamp behind. They break for the night by a wide, marshy river, its water slow-moving and indolent, and Jet gets to work setting a trap in the wet shallows to catch some fish for dinner.

It takes more patience than he knew he had, but these last couple of months have taught him well. All he's got is his patience as he shepherds an oblivious Lu Ten through a journey of recollections that he's not sure he can trust. If only he knew more about what happened when Lu Ten was captured by the Dai Li, then they might have a solution in hand.

He stares into the water, contemplating their future. Even if Lu Ten gets his memories back, what then? He'll be horrified to see how much the Fire Nation has redoubled their war effort, stymied though they were at first upon his death. Will he want to throw himself back into the fray alongside Zuko and redeem himself for all the years he's lost?

Of course he will. In the reeds nearby, a frog croaks dourly, detailing all its woes to an unlistening bog.

Unwittingly, he thinks of the frog that died to prove a point to Zuko, killed by a vial full of poison that most certainly wasn't confiscated from an old man in the woods. Just one of many lives Jet thought to sacrifice—just as Jet owes his own life to Lu Ten, who needn't have spared him at all. Lu Ten and Mushi would both hate him if they knew the things he'd done in the name of fighting the Fire Nation.

The fire at their campsite is burning merrily when Jet gets back with a couple of freshly caught fish, but Lu Ten himself is nowhere to be found. Jet doesn't have far to look, though. The land here is full of fertile fields, and about a hundred feet away, he sights Lu Ten and Miao playing in the grass. Every now and then, a flash of light reverberates around them: fireflies, their luminescence bright as confined lightning.

Jet tends to the fish, slicing and gutting them with practiced hands, leaving the heads and entrails for the cat. After they're broiled to a deliciously tender point, he carries them over to Lu Ten.

"Thank you." Lu Ten smiles as he takes his fish, slightly larger than Jet's, and peels back some of the roasted skin. "But what will Miao eat?"

Jet tosses the less choice bits down in front of Miao, who seems unenthused. "There you go—yum, yum."

"Ew, no, she can't eat that," Lu Ten protests. "Here, Miao, have some of mine." He scoops out a bit of the soft white flesh from his fish and proceeds to offer it to the world's most spoiled cat. "That's more like it."

Miao nibbles his fingers in affection, and Jet shouldn't be surprised. It doesn't matter whether he's Lu Ten the ridiculously sympathetic Fire Nation captain or Mushi the tea shop assistant who gives away all his earnings even on the brink of poverty. He's not about to change, and Jet loves him all the more for it, stupidly, reluctantly, and utterly.

He settles down by Lu Ten's side and attends to his own fish, trying to ignore the way Lu Ten gently coos to the distractible kitten, coaxing her to eat. In spite of the delicious fish, Miao remains too excited about the fireflies to eat much. She bounces back and forth between chasing the enchanting lightning bugs and returning to Lu Ten's lap for another bite like a hyperactive toddler. Lu Ten scratches her ears, strokes down her long-haired back, playfully catches the tip of her tail as it twitches away, and you'd be wrong to say that Jet wishes he were a cat. He wishes he were as loved as this particular cat, without condition, without expectation.

Lu Ten laughs as Miao lunges for a firefly, furballing herself into the soft grass as she of course fails to catch it. Under a serene half-moon, with the distant firelight shadowing his profile and the light evening breeze tousling the folds of his clothes, he has never looked more beautiful and less distant, and Jet finds himself craving more.

 _This is a terrible idea,_ he tells himself as he leans toward Lu Ten, still distracted by Miao's antics.

 _Utterly awful,_ as Lu Ten turns back to him, flashing him a playfully puzzled look at his proximity, not realizing what's up until it's too late—

 _The worst idea ever, how do I come up with them,_ as he tilts his chin to one side and presses his mouth to Lu Ten's.

He's hesitant at first, but as Lu Ten shows no sign of pulling away, he dares to push forward, sealing their lips together more tightly. Slowly, with the monumental gravity of a dam collapsing, Lu Ten lets him in between open lips, a soft, involuntary whisper at the back of his throat swallowed in their passion. Jet shuffles closer, raising himself up slightly on his knees to push down into the kiss, and Lu Ten arches his neck to accommodate the angle, seeking more. He's dizzying, intoxicating, and Jet probes at the lovely straight lines of his jaw, his shoulder, other hand spreading fingers wide over his thigh, desperate for more touch, more contact, more _everything_. He's wanted this for longer than he knew, and this fulfillment drives him to ever greater heights.

 _Lu Ten…_

And then suddenly a catastrophic fall, like stepping off a high branch in the forest, like flying but with a more permanent destination. Lu Ten pulls away from the kiss, breathing hard, looking anywhere but at him.

"Jet, I…"

 _Did he not want it after all?_ Jet's heart plummets; he feels as if all the blood has left his head, leaving him unable to comprehend _why_ Lu Ten would cut this off so abruptly.

"I'm sorry. Jet, I can't."

"Why not?" he asks. It's as if every time he takes a risk… he's wrong. But why this time in particular? "I thought… after what we've been through together, you would feel the same way. Or have I been reading everything wrong?"

Lu Ten twists his fingers in his lap, still unable to face him. "Jet, you know I'm not really the person you've fallen for. That person will be gone when I finally get back to who I'm supposed to be, and that's not fair to you."

"No, you're wrong," Jet says, vehement. "It's not like that. You're Mushi, _and_ Lu Ten. The only thing separating the two is your memories. They won't change who you are as a person. You'll still be…"

Lu Ten shakes his head sadly. "You don't know that. You didn't know Lu Ten; you only knew the legend of the Azure Dragon. You know Mushi, but Mushi isn't real. I can't hurt you like that, giving you what you want but taking it away once Mushi is gone."

"Forget about me for a moment." He lurches forward, grabs Lu Ten by the shoulders, almost trying to shake some stability into him. "Forget about me. Just think about yourself right now, Mushi, Lu Ten, whoever the fuck you want to be for a moment. Don't you feel… what do you feel?"

 _Do you love me,_ he tries to ask but balks at the last moment. Too vulnerable, and it tells how long he's lived like this, wearing his swords and his bitterness and his Freedom Fighter persona like armor. Just as he sheds it, he faces the most mortal of wounds.

Heartbreak, as Lu Ten closes his eyes and asks, "Does it matter?"

 _Alright then._

He lets go of Lu Ten and stands, seeking his retreat. This really was a stupid idea, but he's used to those.

"Jet."

"It doesn't matter, right? Forget it." He shoots back without turning around. _Forget it. You always ruin these things, so why try to fix anything anymore._ With aching resolution, he strides off into the night, away from the light and love of Lu Ten's presence.

* * *

 **MUSHI**

 _Fuck._ He watches Jet's figure recede into the shadows along the edge of the river, wandering far away in his anger and disappointment. _That was… not good._

If he's to be honest with himself, he does love Jet. They've saved each other's lives so many times now, endured such hardship and pain together, it would be beyond imagination to think that they don't matter to each other. Jet is like his brother and his friend and an echo chamber for his heart's song. _He knows the sound of my voice, and I his._ But Mushi is still afraid to admit what Jet has so frankly disclosed of his own heart.

 _What if I don't feel the same way after I go back to being Lu Ten?_ He has no way of knowing what Lu Ten was really like. Another nagging thought presents itself to his mind. _What if Lu Ten can't because there's someone else waiting to give him the same things Jet wants?_ Everything is so uncertain, and he cannot return Jet's affections without feeling burdened by all these quandaries. It's… ugh. Impossible, all around.

Hours pass; the moon walks in the sky. Miao, who had observed the proceedings with her usual adorable bemusement before deciding fireflies were more interesting, reigns herself in and flops into Lu Ten's lap to rest. He tickles the tips of her ears absently. The night air is cool and still, and he finds himself itching for Jet's voice and sounds that usually rest in his ears, talking about whatever strikes his fancy, singing sometimes, whetting his swords or yawning without reservation or doing whatever it is that makes him Jet, and makes him beloved.

 _I should go apologize,_ he admits to himself at length. _Maybe rehearse a thoughtful spiel._

He lets Miao go first when they encounter Jet lying faceup, arms crossed, glaring at the night sky by the river. It's a little underhanded, but kittens have been proven to help heal all wounds of the heart and smooth over apologies that might otherwise go unheeded.

"Don't bother," Jet says, or at least Mushi thinks he does. His voice is somewhat muffled as Miao decides to curl up right on top of his face in an attempt at comfort.

"Jet… I know you might not forgive me, and that's okay. I just want you to know that I'm so sorry," Mushi says gravely, every word halting and somber. "For everything. I stand by what I said earlier, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt me to see you hurting like this."

"No, I mean it. Don't bother." He relocates Miao to cuddle on his chest, stroking the round curve of her head idly. "It's not your fault that I have a thing for exiled princes of the Fire Nation." He cocks a sardonic eyebrow at Mushi. "There aren't any more of you, are there?"

"Uh…"

"Right, you wouldn't know. I'll have to keep an eye out." He sighs. "It's okay, Mushi. The things I've wanted in life obviously aren't what the universe wants for me. I'll just keep searching and calling. One day I'll get it right."

Mushi kneels beside him, setting one hand on a tense shoulder that gradually relaxes beneath his palm. He tweaks at one of Miao's ears, fingers brushing Jet's, and they form a peaceful triangle beneath the watchful stars, mismatched and maybe a little miserable but no less beholden to each other in spite of it.

MMM

He doesn't know why, but as they continue their journey, Jet grows more tense and silent, the opposite of his usual self. It's not because of their recent emotional schism either. Jet doesn't shy away from him, their steps echoing each other's, sleeves brushing and shoulders bumping when they move around each other as they always have. He's more… absent, his eyes slow to track Mushi's face whenever he says something, his gaze forward-facing but unfocused. Distracted and distant, he withdraws into himself, leaving Mushi unable to fathom the cause. He hopes time will prove a sufficient balm for Jet's heart, but there's more to it than that.

They ford the vast Hui River whose borders delineate the beginning of the northwestern Earth Kingdom. On its sunny opposite shore, Jet blows out a long exhale, sounding exhausted even before they resume their journey.

"What's wrong?" Mushi asks.

Jet shakes his head. "Nothing," he says at first, then corrects himself. "You'll see."

Later that night, they make camp in the shadow of a low mountain range. From afar, they can see its wooded slopes, the trees dense and ancient as the bones of the earth.

"You could lose an army in that forest," Mushi remarks. He's not keen on going into any forests at the moment, not after everything that transpired in the swamp.

"You could lose many things in that forest," Jet restates dourly. "I nearly lost myself."

At a questioning look from Mushi, he continues. "This forest is vast. It borders my hometown to the east. Where we stand now is more or less the spot where you once did battle with Colonel Mongke of the Rough Riders to defend the innocent."

He avoids Mushi's eyes, instead fixating on a piece of wood in his hands that he's carving into some shape. Mushi thinks he hears an accusatory echo— _why can't you remember? Why couldn't you, the one person from my past who's survived to the present, even recall what you yourself did?_

He wishes more than anything that he could, but he doesn't know how to make it happen. Between his knees, Miao stretches luxuriantly and springs to her feet, a wide yawn splitting her jaw.

"After you saved me, I fled north to the village of Gaipan. It's a few miles farther inland, yet it was spared the ravage of the Fire Nation's troops as they passed through this corridor on the way to Ba Sing Se. Many refugees sought a new home there, and I fit in as best I could.

"People still had to make a living, obviously. An older couple took me in, a blacksmith and his wife. Their sons had already gone off to war. They put me to work right away; they weren't unkind, just hard-pressed for an extra set of hands. I was more than willing to learn. The old man himself was pretty handy with all sorts of weaponry, and I picked up some of my skill with swords from him.

"All in all, I spent three years there, learning the trade, learning to fight, to forget my misery and my family, and things were as peaceful as they could be. But you know what they say: _this too shall pass._ "

Mushi winces at the wry smugness in the way Jet twists the old saying. "It's usually meant in reference to bad things, fleeting tragedies and pain that will pass with time."

"So do good things," Jet shoots back. "Perhaps even more so; there's so much evil in the world that those few blessings we do have seem to pass even quicker. So it was with my time in Gaipan. The war caught up with me. On the day I heard the news that the Fire Nation was coming to our town, all I could think was: _not again._

"The governor surrendered outright since we didn't have the manpower to fight back without greater loss of life, and the Fire Nation troops actually moved in without killing any townspeople. Maybe your father had a change of heart and decided that aimless slaughter of civilians wasn't the way to govern a conquered people."

 _My father…?_ It takes Mushi a moment to reconcile Jet's words with General Iroh, Lu Ten's father.

"I was angry. I didn't want the Fire Nation squatting on our land, a constant reminder of everything I'd lost. But who was going to listen to a little kid? I didn't want to be a helpless child who had to be saved anymore. I don't know what I thought I was going to achieve that night, but I stole a pair of swords from the workshop and snuck out, heading for the Fire Nation troops' encampment."

He fends off Miao's inquisitive nose from the knot of wood that's slowly taking form in his hands, skilled fingers turning it this way and that against the edge of the knife.

"Of course, I didn't get two steps in before I was caught. The commander was condescendingly kind and didn't bother killing me. In fact, he brought me back to my house like a benevolent nanny and told me not to make any more trouble. My adoptive parents were shocked and disappointed, to be sure. I think my punishment was something to the effect of not getting to train with swords anymore, and not being allowed to go anywhere near the enemy's camp.

"I didn't listen, of course. I didn't want to stop fighting back, so I ran away with the swords and whatever supplies I could scrounge up. I got the idea into my head that I could survive alone in the woods and make a plan to overthrow the Fire Nation by myself. And for a while, I did just that.

"The Fire Nation decreed that no more refugees from other states would be allowed to enter Gaipan. There were too many people, and the occupying army needed the town's resources for its own provisions. They took a generous share of anything of value, leaving little for those who remained. The whole town was essentially held hostage for the Fire Nation army's purposes, but they didn't have the manpower to spare patrolling the forest, and so my home remained untouched. I hid in the forest and ended up running into other orphaned children looking for somewhere to hide, blocked from entering the town with no place to go home to."

Mushi nods, recalling what Jet has told him of the Freedom Fighters, the brainchild of Jet's resilience and natural tendency to shepherd others into his brilliant plans, Mushi himself notwithstanding.

"We banded together out of necessity, but over time, I started to envision another purpose for us. We were young—we were hopeful and motivated and not yet jaded by decades of fruitless war. We could make a difference and fight to take back what was ours.

"Gaipan was a major communications hub for the troops scattered throughout the Earth Kingdom thanks to its central location. Messages from the northwest, south, and Ba Sing Se to the east often went through this outpost to and from the homeland, so we did everything we could to disrupt their conveyance, waylaying couriers, shooting down messenger birds, ambushing supply caravans, heckling the patrols sent out to counter us. I like to think I made a name for myself, and a home for the Freedom Fighters, at least."

Mushi puzzles over where this is going. By Jet's report, he'd had a falling out with some of the others, resulting in him leaving the Freedom Fighters and going to Ba Sing Se. But he's never actually explained the source of their conflict.

Jet places his finished product on the ground between them, its rounded curves and angled limbs rough but unmistakably in the figure of a cat, sitting primly with its head held high. Miao investigates it with haughty regard and deems it worthy. Mushi laughs as the live cat settles down and curls up around the wooden cat, enveloping its unfeeling body with her own.

"Miao's grown on you," he remarks. "Remember when we first found her and you didn't want to keep her?"

"Hmph," Jet snorts. "I suppose."

He seems lost in thought for a bit until Mushi prompts him. "You were talking about the Freedom Fighters."

Jet sighs, a deep, weary sound from the bottom of his lungs. "We never succeeded in driving out the soldiers and liberating the town, even though that was my goal from the beginning. There was only so much we could do, until your cousin came along." He amends his words at Mushi's fleeting confusion. "Your cousin, the Avatar, Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation, son of Ursa and Fire Lord Ozai—ring a bell?"

He shakes his head. Still, nothing.

* * *

 **JET**

He still doesn't remember. Jet had thought talking about Zuko would do it; he and Lu Ten must have been close. If the distant memory of Jet himself isn't good enough, surely Lu Ten's own cousin would be, but apparently not—he's still running into dead ends, at a loss as to what to do. He may as well give up his whole damning story. Hopefully it'll send Mushi into a self-righteous fit strong enough to recall Lu Ten from the mortuary of his brain, wherever he's hiding. Who knows.

He tells Lu Ten about how he manipulated Zuko into helping them with the plan to destroy the dam and flood the town. How his strategy was foiled, the townspeople warned ahead of time and their lives spared. That night, he'd avoided the rest of the Freedom Fighters, heading into the ghost town alone to see the extent of the destruction. Under somber starlight lay ruined, muddy streets, abandoned shop tills and wares, the paths littered with rotten tiles and timbers from collapsed houses all around—houses, not homes.

"Home is where the heart is, right?" he quips, looking straight at Lu Ten this time. Maybe this is the product of too many generations who've spent more years at war than in peace, with nothing in life secure and permanent enough to cling to except the truth of these old adages. _Home is where the heart is. This too shall pass._ A litany of hopeful lies.

The hearts and home of the people of Gaipan live on, close as they'd come to erasure thanks to Jet's inspired madness. They'll resettle eventually, on the same site as before or perhaps somewhere close by. He's not clear on whether the Fire Nation soldiers decided to remain encamped there or move their operations to a less belligerent locale. Even though it was once his crowning goal in life to see them routed in shameful retreat, he didn't stick around to see if it came true. The other Freedom Fighters know just as well as he does how misguided his actions were, how unfit he is to be their leader.

He gets up, eyes averted, and walks away before he has to witness Lu Ten's reaction. Certainly it's pathetic of him, but he doesn't want to deal with any more rejection just now. It's been a dismal few days, and he pitches himself out listlessly on the ground to sleep, far from Lu Ten, far from home.

Miao sidles up to him, the carved wooden cat clumsily clutched in her mouth, and he smiles in spite of himself, allowing her to nestle into the crook of his arm. He's not sure if Lu Ten sent her as an attempt at breaking the ice or if she came of her own volition, enamored by his ability to create miraculous new playthings. Either way, it's a small comfort in this web of guilt and shame that he's drawn for himself.

* * *

 **MUSHI**

"This is where I used to live," Jet says.

Mushi looks around. For miles around them stretch empty, untended fields. The ground cover is patchy and sparse, some parts of the fields overrun by hardy grasses and wildflowers, nature already reclaiming her own. In other parts, Mushi can still see the furrows running parallel down rows and rows of tilled earth, the spring sowing ready to commence but forever arrested in time when the inferno arrived. In the distance stand the remains of two, maybe three intact buildings, skeleton frames dangling, splintered, charred, and utterly uninhabited. There is no evidence to suggest that anyone has set foot here in years.

Jet seems to be searching for something, circling around the broken land, eyes on the cracks in the ground. It is futile, but he continues doggedly, and Mushi follows him without comment. Dried stalks and husks of unwatered vegetation crack and splinter under their feet as they venture through the endless fields. Undeterred, Jet remains unaware of anything around him besides his quest for something unknown, murmuring to himself as if in a dream. Mushi steals a little closer, a little worried.

"I can't find it," he hears, repeated in a daze. "I can't… can't find it, I _can't—"_

"Find what?"

Jet closes his eyes for a long moment, seeming to call himself back to the present, to the earth where he stands now, lost and beleaguered. "I can't find my house. I can't find where it used to be."

It is like watching a glacier carve itself into the sea. Everything about it is so unlike Jet. He is exquisitely cold, detached, eyes distant, sinking to his knees, hands gripped into whitened fists on his thighs. Silent, grave-like, as if he wants to merge himself with the ashes surrounding them.

Mushi casts his eyes over the soulless fields, every inch of them equal in their barrenness. Of course Jet cannot find what he's looking for. His house and home have burned to the ground long ago. He will not find closure that way.

"Jet," he tries, not expecting an answer. He is beyond comfort, steeped in memories that have lain dormant for many years, quelled in favor of living, not dying. He is a survivor.

"Why didn't I just die?" Jet asks the ground, voice listless, empty. "Why couldn't I have died with them that day?"

Mushi sometimes asks this question of himself. His parents, his brother, his friends, village, and he alone remains—to what end? But he does not think this is what Jet needs to hear right now.

"I should've just died," he mutters. "Should've…not like I had anything to live for…"

Mushi hears the beginnings of a strangled sob as Jet crumples to hands and knees, fists pounded to the dry earth, the clay too packed to even absorb his tears.

"Should've just died." It is hardly more than a hoarse whisper at this point, pillow talk to death's loving, greedy grasp. He's tired of life, so, so weary despite his few years, and Mushi feels that pain like an ache in his joints, bone-deep and paralyzing.

Fists clench and unclench, fingers clawing into the earth convulsively, the dirt collecting like guilt under his fingernails—a stain on the soul, a blight over his undeserved life. Forehead pressed to the ground, voice shaking, he damns himself to Mushi, to the whimsical heavens that spared his life, to his departed loved ones.

"Jet." Mushi finally decides to stop hovering and kneels down beside Jet's prostrate form. He reaches out a hand to place on his back, then hesitates, withdrawing it.

"What have I even done with the life I got back when you saved me that day? What have I ever done that made your efforts worth it? Besides attempt to kill the Avatar and an entire town full of innocent people."

 _For heaven's sake, Jet._ This time, Mushi doesn't hold back. He takes those shuddering shoulders under his arm, insinuating himself into Jet's space just as Jet did a few firefly-lit evenings ago. He's hurting desperately, and Mushi cannot stand by and watch.

"Even if I could have somehow seen your future, I still would have protected you that day." It's true for Mushi, and he thinks that Lu Ten, however similar or different they truly are, would have done the same. "Life isn't something someone deserves or doesn't deserve, to be doled out like a reward by some self-imagined savior."

It is as if Mushi's embrace releases the floodgates of his soul, letting Jet give voice to the grief of years past. He wonders if Jet has ever allowed himself to properly mourn the loss of everything he once held dear. Perhaps in the beginning, as a young child with no other recourse, he would have wept bitterly, stricken with homesickness, but Mushi doubts the young man before him has taken the time to shed his tears to another listening soul for many years. But that is not the way of a broken heart—to pour itself out once and then forever hold its silence. He needs to let this pain go.

"You've made mistakes, Jet," he says softly. Pretending those past transgressions don't exist won't help Jet's conscience. "Those mistakes came from a place of hurt. You can't make up for them until you stop letting that hurt drive you."

They stay there long enough for Mushi's legs to begin to ache, curled underneath him, for the ground to grow cool as the setting sun's rays recede, and still Jet remains slumped against his side, shuddering tears giving way to occasional mournful hiccups. As he starts to regain his composure, Mushi shifts, hesitant and unsure of his welcome but not wanting to push Jet away and further alienate him. In a world where any prolonged touch is either violence or blistering intimacy (sometimes both at once), this easy, unintensified contact between their parched skin and forlorn limbs is a haven of warmth and solace.

"It's alright," Jet says, voice only a little wobbly. "I don't mind. You don't have to worry that you're... leading me on or something. I know your platonic is more lovey-dovey than most, and that's alright. If more people could be like you, maybe we wouldn't be living in this endless fucking war."

MMM

"I don't know what to do anymore," Jet confesses.

They've left the village behind, skirting the forest, knowing that these places will only serve to drive a splinter deeper into his heart. The past remains in the past, and they look forward now.

"Like you said, everything that hurt me when I lost my home has been driving my actions up until now. Forming the Freedom Fighters, attacking the Fire Nation, even dragging you around the Earth Kingdom trying to make you remember what happened that day… it's all culminated in nothing. I don't know what to do now." He shakes his head helplessly, without answers, without the questions to spawn further inquiry and purpose.

"It's alright, Jet. You don't always have to have all the answers."

He thinks back to his swamp-given visions, the lightning, the dreams of his little brother, and of a grim, mysterious stranger meditating by a great river. There are answers to be found; he does not know if they are to the questions Mushi still has, but they will never know if they do not seek him out.

"Beyond these mountains, north of here and a little to the west," he decides. "I don't usually trust hallucinations given by murderous swamp spiders, but it's all we got for now. If you're okay with that, that is."

Jet shrugs. "For so much of the past few years, I've been a leader to others, and look where that got us all. I'm willing to follow you for once."

And so they trade places, seeking the truth, facing forward all the while.

* * *

 **A/N:** And that's a wrap for Jet and Mushi in this book, to be continued in the next! Writing notes are here: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/44616661


	13. ZUKO, AZULA: The Sun Spirit

_8 April._ **HARU**

"Still interested in that reward?"

"Don't tempt me." June pauses, reining Nyla in. "Do you really think you can help the Avatar win? Because if you're not sure, I'll go in and pick him up. We'll split the reward three ways and live comfortably out of sight of the Fire Nation."

"No," Azula says shortly. She and Haru have disembarked at the Northern Air Temple ( _should've come here first_ , he laments), led here by June and her shirshu's keen sense of smell. "I won't hide for the rest of my life, and the only way I can do that is by bringing my father and the rest of his crazed army down. I won't give Zuko up."

"Have it your way." June doesn't seem moved by her conviction. "You should know, some fights you can only win for yourself, not for the whole world. Set your sights a little lower, darling, and you won't be so disappointed when you fall."

"Aren't you a brilliant ray of sunshine," Haru intercedes before Azula can further embroil herself in this spiteful conversation. There's no winning with June. "Well, we'll be off then. Thanks for bringing us this far."

She scoffs. "This may be the farthest you'll get."

HHH

"This is so different from the first time we climbed an air temple," Haru remarks as they embark on the path. "It seems like an eternity, but it's only been a few months."

"Different? How so?"

"Well, for one, we're certain of finding what we came for, so that's nice. Two, the path is easy to follow since someone had the forethought to put these markers here." He tugs at a long yellow sash tied to a pine tree determinedly growing at an improbable angle against the wall. "Look."

The tie comes loose, and with a flourish, he slips it off the tree, its end trailing merrily in the light breeze. "And three, you look much happier than the first time." With solemn joyousness, he winds the streamer around her forehead, tying it neatly behind her head to match his own. "Perfect."

She stares up at him, speechless, and he wonders if he has made a misstep yet again. But then she laughs shortly as she unties the headband, refastening it around her waist. It clashes horribly with the green of her robe and the blue of her hairpin, but she is no less beautiful for it.

He follows her up the mountain, her steps chipper and confident, as if she knows the way, as if she's going home.

* * *

 **AZULA**

They pass a divot in the side of the mountain along the way where a memorial tablet has been erected, and Azula stops short when she sees whose it is.

Lu Ten

Azure Dragon of the East

Brother, son, beloved

 _Trust Zuko to be a sentimental fool, even after all these years._

"Our honorable cousin Lu Ten, who fell in battle before the walls of Ba Sing Se five years ago," she explains for Haru's benefit. "Zuko idolized him. I didn't care too much for him until his death paved the way for our father to take the throne. I suppose in a way, he's responsible for the state of our chaotic world."

She takes out a sheet of paper from her pack, amazed that it's survived, only slightly wrinkled and torn, throughout all their travels. "I took this from Zuko's room before we left the palace, thinking something along the lines of using it to win his good graces. Or at least strongarm him into accepting my alliance, a la _'what-would-Lu-Ten-do?'_ kind of scenario."

She lays the portrait of their late cousin before the cold stone, weighing it down with a rock, a face to be remembered for years to come, or at least as long as it does not rain.

"You can't imagine what dear Lu Ten meant to Zuko. Truly, it's fitting that we've come full circle, and I can venerate him on Zuko's behalf now."

She bows before the memorial tablet, hoping that Lu Ten's spirit does not reject her suppliance as she kneels here in irony.

 _Dear cousin… tell my idiot brother that I've changed. If you could change the course of the war, and he could change himself from cowering prince into reputable Avatar, then who am I to fall short of you all?_

 _Tell him to give me a chance, by the gods._

* * *

 **AANG**

"So, let's run the list one more time," Sokka says, unfurling his agenda. "Everyone ready?"

Various affirmatives from around the room. They're gathered in Teo's workshop ("most secure location in the Northern Air Temple, rest assured"). Toph slouches, lying on the floor, feet propped up on a bench, all ears if not eyes. Teo continues soldering elements of his new glider prototype together while Katara holds the tools steady for him, both of them listening intently in spite of appearing otherwise.

Next to Aang, Zuko looks less than present, a mere "Mhm" to indicate his attention as Sokka launches into his sixteenth (well, Aang's lost count) iteration of The Plan since he, Toph, and Katara arrived at the Northern Air Temple. He's been like that throughout most of their group discussions of the day of Sozin's comet; whether that's due to nerves or fading resolve, Aang's not sure.

They watch Sokka draw an increasingly frazzled map full of dots and lines delineating where everyone will assemble and deploy on the fated day. "Zuko, you strike for the head; we'll be there for support, and after all is said and done, it's time to take out the airship fleet and rendezvous with everyone at the main action: Ba Sing Se. That leaves only two things unaccounted for: Princess Azula and the comet."

"Pah. As far as I'm concerned, that princess doesn't hold a candle to Zuko. Why should we worry about her?" Toph demands. She's clearly miffed upon finding out that Azula was worth just as much as her bounty, never mind the fact that it's already quite a feat to be considered worth the same amount as a princess.

"She's an unknown variable; we don't know where she is or what she plans to do." Aang saves Sokka the explanation.

"How about the comet, then? We know for sure where it's gonna be and what it plans on doing: converting the world into a waking nightmare," Toph says, ever the blunt one.

"I'm glad you asked." Sokka devolves into a long discussion weighing the pros and cons of freezing the comet, putting it out using some combination of firebending and earthbending, pulling it into the ocean to douse it, politely asking it to maybe go away and come back in a few millennia, etc.

"What do you think, Zuko?"

Zuko looks surprised to be addressed, lost in thought, in that waking nightmare. As subtly as he can, Aang slips one hand into Zuko's behind their backs, knowing how one touch can bolster him enough to regain his composure. He doesn't look much reassured, but he musters the will to speak.

"I don't know how well any of those ideas will work, considering that I still can't control the Avatar state. I locked my seventh chakra, which prevents me from accessing the cosmic energy of the universe."

"Yeah, all I heard was blah, blah, blah, something spiritual mumbo jumbo something." Toph waves a dismissive hand. "Can't you unlock it somehow?"

Zuko clears his throat. "Well…"

"We're working on it," Aang promises, nudging Zuko's hand gently with one finger, understanding how reluctant he is to disclose the nature of his difficulty. No one appears very confident about this statement, though, and an awkward silence ensues, broken by Katara.

"Well, I guess you could say this really throws a _wrench_ in our plans." She brandishes the hefty wrench she's currently holding for Teo. "Yeah? Yeah, maybe?" she tries hopefully, to no avail; the room is full of stony, humorless faces.

"Maybe leave the jokes to your brother," Toph suggests.

"What—his jokes mainly concern meat and boomerangs, that's not even funny!" she counters, enraged at this reception.

This time everyone does laugh, a strained kind of humor that falls through easily, but fortunately, the Mechanist chooses that moment to poke his head in with a distraction.

"It would appear we have a visitor."

"Who is it?" Teo asks.

"Princess Azula of the Fire Nation."

 _Oh._

* * *

 **ZUKO**

It is a day for unexpected reunions. His sister stands in the foyer of the sanctuary, a column of sunlight from the ceiling pouring down on her, halo-like. They remain at an impasse, wondering how to resume the threads of their siblinghood, cut short so abruptly by Zuko's banishment. He turns defensive automatically, because after all, it's _Azula._

"Why are you here?" he blurts out, unable to summon much more graciousness than that. He vaguely registers the rest of the group, Sokka, Katara, and Toph uneasy, while at Azula's right hand stands her partner-in-crime, Haru, the earthbender from Meikuang.

"Good afternoon to you too, brother. You're not glad to see me?"

"Never have been, so why would I be now?" It's not completely true, and they both know it.

"You should be." She advances, steps light and ginger against the stone tiles of the sanctuary. "You're stuck on a strategy for the day Sozin's comet arrives. You can't defeat our father while ignoring the comet's advantage. You're stymied. You feel like giving up, don't you? I can help you there."

He frowns over her shoulder, but Sokka shakes his head no— _haven't told her anything about our plans, I'm as stumped as you are._ He's not surprised—Azula's always miles ahead of everyone else in any given room. "Why should I trust you?"

Another few steps bring her to stand an arm's length away, and behind him, Aang instinctively draws closer, seeking to protect. He blindly reaches a hand back, catching Aang's forearm and staying his urge.

"Because I know you, Zuko, longer and better than anyone else here." From within her sleeve, she withdraws an object: a pearl-handled dagger with an inscription on the blade. "Remember this?"

 _Never give up without a fight._

"What do you say to a little Agni Kai? For old times' sake? I've come all this way."

It's odd to admit, but she's not wrong. She does know him, down to his very core.

"On a couple of conditions, of course," she continues, running with his implicit acceptance. "No other elements; you have the advantage as the Avatar."

"No lightning," he counters.

"And no Avatar state. Just the two of us, like it was always meant to be."

"Fine."

"Uh, Zuko…" Aang begins.

"It's fine." He catches Aang's hand between his own, a quick squeeze to reassure him. "I'll be careful. I think it's for the best if we have a little sibling reunion."

ZZZ

They elect not to have the Agni Kai in the main sanctuary but rather in the open air, where any flames will billow into nothingness without damaging any structures. The temple's observatory, a bare open plateau at the pinnacle of the mountain, serves their purposes well.

"You're sure about this, Zuzu?" Azula calls as she settles into position at the opposite end of the playing field. "You're not about to lose your nerve and start begging for mercy?"

"Shut up, Azula."

Strangely, he feels none of the tremulous qualms he had before the Agni Kai with his father. What suffuses him now is simply a feeling of acceptance. As if it always had to come to this, and now he's ready. He lowers himself to his starting stance, and she knows that he is serious.

 _Breathe in and out, and breathe the fire into being._

* * *

 **AZULA**

 _He truly has come into his own as the Avatar,_ she thinks approvingly as she ducks before the unprecedented strength of his fire wall, the blue shield of her flame protecting her from engulfment. And yet he's had no further training since he left home, unless she's mistaken. So this is the true extent of his innate talent, refined and trained by his teachers and free of the constraints of their father's expectations. It's like meeting a new brother.

She stays close to the ground—it's easier to be a target in the air, at eye-level. With some quick maneuvers, she leverages her upper body on one arm, rearing up with both feet, belting out a blast that stays his approach. Blue fire curls around warm orange flame, their embrace fleeting, their trajectories doomed to diverge once more.

But who is to say Zuko isn't meeting a new sister as well? She, too, has left their father behind, a cruel, deranged tyrant now dead to both of them. They have both rewritten themselves into what they are today. It is only now that she realizes: weakness does not constitute the gentle compassion she used to scorn Zuko for. Strength is not defined by her own self-serving brilliance and conniving.

 _Our strength lies in our capacity to choose our own way independent of what others say._

She rarely feels such unsullied joy and pure enthusiasm for the act of living, but here it is now in light of her revelation. Between the two of them, the world is theirs. Zuko just doesn't know it yet.

She darts towards him, fire beneath her feet gliding her into a smooth trajectory, and he nearly retreats as she makes right for his face, a fiery fist aiming straight at the scar from months past. _Now, now, Zuzu, you were doing so well._

He rallies, deflects her attack, wrists entwined for the briefest moment as their flame streaks heavenward, united. Hand-to-hand now, and who knew—she certainly didn't until this moment—that this is what they've been hurtling towards, for so many months, years? Back and forth, they exchange blows: blunt fist meeting open palm, springing back unharmed; a knifelike jab of sharp fingers, and she turns a tight cartwheel to the side to avoid it (thank you, Ty Lee), parrying with her free hand while still upside down—he just barely evades it. Their pace is faster than any training session she's had between their father, Uncle, and Commander Zhao, exhilarating, enlivening. They come together, separate to three paces' distance again, ever circling, ever intersecting across the field, and Azula pushes forward relentlessly, eager to see what will happen next.

She notes the moment his hind foot steps onto empty air and his eyes widen briefly. Not out of fear—she knows how he wears that look—but out of fleeting irritation that she would play such a dirty trick on him.

 _Make your surroundings work for you._ She'd only heard that pompous refrain about a hundred times a day, ever since he returned from gallivanting out among the rivers and lakes with Lu Ten, having learned from some kind of deserter of a sword master. _It's payback time, Zuzu._

He falls, pelting her with futile fire blasts for as long as she remains in sight, but she's not worried. He won't fall for long, not after what she's seen of him.

* * *

 **HARU**

They watch from afar through the window of the temple sanctuary, none of them wanting to get too close to the arson-happy siblings' catfight. That kind of ends badly when Azula goes so far as to _drive her brother off the edge of a cliff_.

He glances at the rest of Team Avatar; Aang, Sokka, and Katara look thrilled. "I don't know about you all, but I think Zuko just went over the cliff and is possibly falling to his death right now."

He tries hard not to make it sound like a question, yet no one moves in reaction to his dire pronouncement. He'd thought that the ' _Maybe we should do something about that?'_ was implicitly understood. "Uh…"

"Look!" Katara points, cutting him off. Zuko's somehow managed to catapult himself back onto the cliff with renewed energy, steady streams of fire from his feet buoying him and keeping him from his early demise.

"Eh, I wouldn't worry," Toph says nonchalantly. "I've pushed him off a cliff before. He survived, and that was before he was half as strong as he is now."

Azula seems to take Zuko's redoubled efforts to mean that the whole sky is a free-for-all now, and they both take to the air. The many tiers of the observatory form a terrace at the peak of the mountain, and they bounce from level to level, each confident in their ability to simultaneously throw flame at each other and jettison themselves around with nothing but fiery hot gas to support them. This looks distinctly life-threatening.

"Uh, should we… stop them?" Haru tries again.

Sokka laughs, still riveted on the fight. "You don't have any siblings, do you? Fighting is all part of the healing process." Katara nods fervently beside him.

"Besides, the real question is: _can_ we stop them?" Toph adds.

Haru considers. "Well, technically yes, but at significant cost. Maybe just let them fight it out, get it out of their systems," he concedes.

"They're not _fighting_ ," Aang says with the wonder of someone who has just made a thrilling discovery, and Sokka, Katara, and Haru finally tear their eyes away from the sky arena, staring at him as if he's grown an extra nose and lost his brain to boot. "They're… _playing."_

"Well what do you know," Sokka says thoughtfully. "You're right, they are."

So they are. On the distant peak, Azula sends a massive blast that tapers to a point just as Zuko propels himself off the side of the mountain, the flames licking his feet but not quite touching. In recompense, he twists in midair, drawing a fiery ring between his outstretched arms seconds before catching himself on a ledge. Without a moment's hesitation, Azula throws herself right through it, blue fire dissipating the surrounding ring as she gyrates, a perfectly streamlined arrow headed straight at Zuko.

She lands, he reacts, she dances back, he advances. Every move of theirs is a harmonious conjunction, more duet than death wish, more frolicking than fraught conflict. Every flame just barely catches the departing trails of its target, easily parried, more for show than anything. They are playing, just like siblings do and should. Who would have thought?

* * *

 **ZUKO**

There is no consensus as to when they should stop. Death or defeat is the normal rule for Agni Kai, but there seems to be no chance of that, as evenly matched as they are. Finally, they land on the main plateau of the temple observatory, far enough apart to take a deep breath and disengage. He holds up a hand, and they come to a standstill. They're breathing hard, both of them, but it's with the exertion of elation, not feral fear and the iron bloody taste of being hunted. It's a pleasing kind of exhaustion, one that he could use more often.

At last, he has a moment to look at Azula, not having had the time to properly regard her before, between the initial shock of seeing her again and the invitation to an Agni Kai. She's not the Azula he remembers, at least on the outside. Her ensemble is well-worn but neatly kept, the body dark green, almost black, with a stiff high collar and drab sleeves that are nowhere near as voluminous as the royal robes she favored at home. As a whole, utilitarian and far more worldly than the imperial princess she used to embody, save for one thing: a silver pin set amid wound loops of hair, a little in disarray after the Agni Kai. There is a shockingly blue shade of peonies adorning its length. He doesn't remember that being in her usual repertoire for formal occasions.

"You look… different."

She snorts. "Eloquent as always, Zuzu."

He matches the face before him to the last memory he has of her, gloating over his defeat in the Agni Kai, her smug, confident expression full of spurious pity swimming before his eyes even as he still bore the fresh wound bestowed by their father. There is none of that now.

Her features are sharper, the drawn hollows of her bones under skin loosened and less pallid telling of weight lost too fast, pain too viciously suppressed, eyes sunken but no less bright, lips dry, a tautness in the muscles of her throat and jaw that speaks to tears choked back, of months spent living in fear and tension, dread at the wrath of their father. That is Azula now, and her face is not so unfamiliar. He sees in it his own.

ZZZ

"My question still stands: why are you here?" Zuko resumes their conversation from earlier. "Clearly the Fire Lord didn't send you if he's actively advertising for your capture."

They're gathered together once more, Team Avatar, Azula, and Haru, in one of the vestibules branching off the main foyer of the temple sanctuary. It's a tiny room for them to be cramped in a circle, but Zuko keeps in mind the fact that the rest of the Northern Air Temple's inhabitants might not take so kindly to a stranger frequenting their home, at least not until they've identified her intentions.

"And my answer still stands: I want to help you. After you were banished, Father concentrated his efforts into mistaking _me_ for the Avatar and forcing me to learn earthbending. A complete and utter farce, if I ever saw one."

"That's where I come in," Haru adds, seemingly relieved at the excuse to explain his presence. "I got landed with trying to teach a non-earthbender earthbending, and somewhere along the way, I got roped into running away with Azula to find you."

"A handy companion," Azula says, flippant and casual, but this is high praise from his sister. Either she's changed so much in her evaluation of others' merits (perhaps she's channeling Ty Lee?), or he's really something.

"After you used the Avatar state to liberate Haru's village, Father realized he was wrong, that you were the Avatar, not me. It's ironic how in the span of a single night, you went from being reviled outcast to favorite child, without even being there to witness it."

"Hmph." Sokka seems less than swayed. "So you're saying that you just switched sides because daddy doesn't love you anymore?"

Trust Sokka to verbalize the most unsavory truths in front of everyone. Azula shrugs. "Maybe so. Originally, all I wanted was to help you destroy him, and that's easy. On the day of Sozin's comet, ambush him at the airship base on the west coast. Use the Avatar state to wipe him out.

"But I know you, Zuko, and I know you won't stop at that. Saving the world is your priority, and there won't be much left of it to save if you don't stop our great-grandfather's celestial namesake from turning it into a living hellscape. You can't do that without me." "So what's your miraculous solution?" Sokka demands. "Go on, don't be shy about sharing. We're dying to know."

"I'd prefer to discuss it with Zuko alone."

He glances around the circle of familiar faces, and she follows his gaze, noting their mistrust. He meets Aang's eyes and nods. Aang gets to his feet, unsure but willing to follow Zuko's lead. "We'll take our leave then."

"We will?" Sokka sounds just the slightest bit challenging and less than inclined to leave Zuko in the hands of his sister, a threat yet to be fully assessed.

"We're dealing with my father, which makes it family business," Zuko says lightly, taking care to inject his words with enough confidence to ease his nerves. It's true, though; there are things about his family's ashes that don't need to be flung in everyone's faces. Azula has her reasons for wanting to speak with him alone.

Azula turns to Haru. "Can I trust you to mind these buffoons while I'm occupied? I really can't use any frivolous interruptions."

"You can trust me with anything you need," he reassures her, his words encompassing far more than their present situation.

She smiles at him, minute but brilliant like the sun's reflection on a distant lake shore, Zuko blinks a few times in quick succession, making sure he's seen and heard rightly. _Wow, okay then._

* * *

 **AZULA**

"Why not just kill the Fire Lord and assume the throne for yourself?" Zuko asks after the rest of the group leaves. "Then you could have commanded the army to victory against me and the Earth Kingdom, and it wouldn't matter if you weren't the Avatar or not."

She gapes at him. Has he become that bloodthirsty in the time that they haven't seen each other?

He shrugs. "I'm trying to appreciate the options that you had, and it's something I think you would have thought of, if not outright planned."

No, he's not that bloodthirsty; he just thinks she was. "To be fair, it did cross my mind, but it wouldn't have worked. After I was revealed not to be the Avatar, who would still support me? Commander Zhao? Uncle Iroh? Everyone thought I was an impostor who couldn't be trusted with anything. I became the new Zuko, slaving away for our father's approval, trying to regain his trust so that he'd let me leave in search of you. Everything changed after you left. You have no idea."

He raises an eyebrow— _enlighten me_.

She sits down on the steps of the raised stage area at the fore of the hall, presumably where the monks of old gave rousing lectures on Air Nomad dogmata. Zuko places a small teapot to boil over a burning brazier set on a pedestal next to her. The mumbling bubble of hot water soothes the ache in her voice as she begins to impart to him the tale of long months spent in confinement and then in bruising liberation, seeking yet not finding him.

"You know, I found Mom's encyclopedia of herbal poisons in the old greenhouse," she tells him conversationally just as he's pouring the tea into cups. He yelps in shock and spills some tea, pale skin turning angry red under its burn.

"Poison? But why would she…?"

"I've always thought Grandfather Azulon's death was suspiciously abrupt," she hints. "Too convenient. But luckily for me, I took this chance to fake Haru's death and get him out of the Fire Nation."

She tells him about how they traveled to the Southern Air Temple, then the Eastern Air Temple, meeting Jinora along the way. Zuko isn't surprised to hear of her death.

"When I met her, she already knew she didn't have long. Her life wasn't easy, grieving for her husband and her people while raising her son alone in an unfamiliar place."

"It makes you wonder what it must be like to grow up in a functional, whole family," Azula muses. "What a luxury, to have both parents present and attentive to your needs, loving you unconditionally and not for your achievements."

She doesn't hold back, the bitterness spilling from her voice like a poisoned stream, and Zuko takes an uncomfortable sip of his tea, stalling.

"I'm sorry, Azula," he begins, unable to keep on nursing his tea, cowed by the awkward silence. "I—"

She holds up a hand. "Don't. Don't cheapen our mutual understanding by offering meaningless apologies. None of our childhood was your fault, and it would be expressly manipulative of me to try and shift the blame onto you."

He watches as she lifts her teacup to her lips, maintaining soft, unlabored eye contact over the rim of the cup. There's something about tea that makes the scant honesty in her heart float to the surface and enumerate things as they truly are.

"Likewise," he finally says. "I don't blame you for the Agni Kai, nor our father's favoritism, nor any of the things that soured our relationship. It was…"

"A product of the chaotic world we live in," she finishes for him. "The world we're trying to end."

The teapot beside him bubbles over, water boiling unchecked and gushing onto the red-hot coals of the brazier, steam hissing and sparks popping, a brazen mess. "I don't know if it can truly be ended. Tamed, perhaps," Zuko concedes. "As to how you plan to do that… I'm listening."

She watches as he lifts the pot and modulates the flame down into mild embers, no longer rife with flame. "Just like that: pull the firewood out from under the pot."

* * *

 **ZUKO**

He listens to her scheme with growing incredulity. "So what you're saying is, you want me to persuade the sun spirit to withhold the sun's power for however long it takes to defeat the Fire Nation's forces?"

"Precisely. The comet only magnifies our capabilities as firebenders. The sun itself is what allows us to bend at all. Without its power, the invading armies should be easy to crush."

"I wouldn't say _easy,_ " he hedges. "And besides, spirits don't exactly appreciate it when humans mess with them." He thinks of Senlin, of Yue, of the Painted Lady. "The sun spirit might think I'm trying to manipulate it."

"You haven't tried." Azula crosses her arms, glaring at him. "In any case, I think it just might have a stake in preserving the balance of the universe. Surely it won't hurt to ask? You're the Great Bridge; if it listens to anyone, it'll be you."

 _She has a point_ , he admits to himself grudgingly. "Okay," he agrees. "I'll see what I can do."

She tilts her chin at him expectantly.

"Right now?"

"Of course right now," she snaps. "What, were you going to wait until the day of the comet and risk failing to secure the sun spirit's cooperation? Talk to it now and get it to sign its name on the spirit world equivalent of a contract. We need to be sure of our victory."

"Ugh, fine." It occurs to him that he doesn't even know the name of the spirit in question. That will make a great first impression: barge in and impose on the sun spirit's duties without knowing how to properly address it. "Sit tight, this might take a while. I don't even know where to find the sun spirit."

He closes his eyes and slots his knuckles together in meditation, concentrating hard, praying that this will work.

* * *

 **HARU**

He spends the next few hours wandering the premises with Zuko's friends, an unlikely group, but he finds them amiable enough. Through them, he has a fascinating window into Azula's brother, the Avatar, so unlike her in his capacity to gather allies and sincerely gain their trust and support. Azula's made do with Haru, but if they are to make a difference in this war, they will have to team up.

He gives Katara the water from Wan Shi Tong's library. "It's spirit water, so it's supposed to have super magic healing powers. I imagine you run into a lot of life-and-death situations with the Avatar around, so you'll probably have more use for it."

"Thank you." Katara dangles the pendant before her eyes. "But are you sure it's actually spirit water? It looks just like normal water."

He mock-gasps in false betrayal. "Are you accusing me of being a charlatan? Of course it's real! An actual spirit fox brought me to an underground fountain in a library run by a giant talking owl in the middle of the desert, where I bottled it myself."

He stops short, realizing that that doesn't make him sound any more credible. "Yeah, you'll just have to take my word on it."

"Uh-huh. Maybe I will if you explain how you managed to get to the middle of the desert. Surely you didn't walk all the way there?"

"Of course not. It was thanks to this." Everyone watches in anticipation as he dramatically pulls out a jar of…

"Sand?" Toph says, the ultimate skeptic. "What, did you swim through it?"

"Oh, haven't you heard of sandbending?"

The greatest earthbender in the world clearly has not—Haru disapproves. "Sand _is_ a part of earth, and a pretty key part in getting me and Azula out of the desert. It's a shame, I wish I could show you the sandsailer that we used to escape from that hellish place." He twirls a spiral of sand between his fingers, lifting it out of the jar and guiding it in lazy billows like the vast, mutable dunes of the Si Wong Desert.

"A sandsailer…" Teo ponders the idea as he and Aang fiddle with the canvas frame of some puzzling contraption. "How does it work?"

Turns out Teo and his dad are genius inventors, a useful advantage for the Avatar yet again, Haru muses, struck by how miraculously supporters flock to Zuko's side wherever he goes, including Azula herself. Still, he doesn't feel that same pull. Maybe it's because he knows Azula better, has been by her side through thick and thin, but he finds her by far more compelling, more of a figure to follow into the unknown. Foolishly, he hopes the day when he can no longer do so is still far in the distance.

For now, he watches Teo rig up a mini sandsailer, large enough to carry a hog-chicken or a bat-goose perhaps, sustained only by the handful of sand Haru had brought with him. It's the work of just a few minutes, but Teo proudly shows it off to an unimpressed Toph.

"See? I told you I could do it," he crows as Haru manipulates the sandsailer in a tight circle around the periphery of the room. "It's pretty useful, having such a malleable form of earth. Unlike coal, it's light and easy to store in different containers—everything you'd need for versatile transportation. It's almost like flying, like we do with our gliders, but over land."

"Eh, I'll stay on the ground, thanks," Toph retorts. "Flying with Appa for the past few weeks hasn't improved my taste for the air."

Haru frowns, intrigued. "What's that you said about flying?"

"Oh, haven't you heard of gliding?" Toph asks archly, peeved at being shown up with regards to sandbending.

 _If we end up teaming up with the Avatar and friends, it's going to be a trying alliance._ He envisions running damage control between Toph and Azula and shudders.

* * *

 **ZUKO**

 _Can't imagine why anyone would want to visit the spirit world._ He opens his eyes to a grey wasteland dotted with cracked brambles of trees and mile upon mile of untrodden, fallow fields. _Am I in the right place? Maybe I travelled to an alternate universe where everything's dead?_

Something here is not dead, he realizes as he hears a noise behind him, a shrill whining like a helpless sparrow chick fallen out of its nest. It sends chills down his spine as he turns around, completely alone, only to see a massive web strung between two trees. At its center struggles a spider-fly as large as his head, further ensnaring itself as it thrashes. He instinctively recoils, then pauses. It's not the spider-fly's fault that its gossamer wings make it prone to trapping itself in a web of its own making, doing more harm than good. Maybe he can help.

"Go away, human!" the shrill voice exclaims as he approaches. "You're not wanted here!" Most of the eight bright black eyes splayed across its head roll to stare fathomlessly at him, while a couple still swivel out of control.

"I won't hurt you." Zuko raises his hands slowly so that it can see he has no ill intent. "I want to help. Will you let me?"

The web glows a faintly noxious purple, a light mist surrounding it, and the spider-fly hisses at his proximity, adding to the spookiness. "No humans. No humans! This is the spirit world!"

Its whiny, minuscule voice doesn't exactly command obedience, and Zuko strays closer, trying to not startle it. "I won't hurt you," he reassures, reaching for the web.

Instantly, it wraps silken tendrils around his wrist, holding him captive just like the poor spider-fly, and he gasps, trying to withdraw his hand, wondering if this was no more than a ploy to capture him for its own appetite.

 _Stay calm,_ he thinks, the rational voice in his head sounding familiarly like Aang's. _Stay calm, you've got this in hand. You can make things right._

 _Find yourself, and you will find the solution—_ Avatar Tenzin's words to him as he sought a way to counter the tree spirit Senlin on its quest to destroy a lonely mining village. It seems like a lifetime ago, but Zuko knows what to do now. With deep, steady breaths, he slows his racing heart and flexes his trapped hands to the limits restricted by the thick silken strings, their tendrils intent on encroaching on the rest of his arm. He focuses his thoughts into a bright, effusive plane full of all things good, willing them into being and reality, both for him and for the unfortunate spider-fly.

 _I've been there before, stuck in a trap of my own creation._ He thinks of the falsehood that had initially overlain his relationship with Aang, his withholding his true identity until things had come to a head. _I set myself up for our conflict. I only managed to fix things when I allowed myself to be vulnerable._

He grips the steely silk strings of the web tightly in his fist, and slowly, the miasmic aura around it recedes, the strands glowing bright and hot in a fleeting instance before releasing him and loosening from around the spider-fly's entangled wings. It wriggles free of the trap and beats its wings into flight, hovering uncertainly around his head.

"Why did you help me?" it asks, genuinely confused.

"That is the nature of the universe. Help others and you help yourself."

"Then you do understand." Eight eyes regard him with an almost human interest, less otherworldly than he would expect of a spider-fly spirit. "That is more than most humans and some spirits do."

"What do you mean?"

The spirit doesn't reply, instead resettling itself into its web, which this time does not close around it and suffocate its own host. Instead, under its careful attentions, the material of the web gradually emits a delicate glow, its golden strings warm, not piercing, and at each interconnection of the strings, the fell mist surrounding them condenses into a jewel-like vertex, clear and glittering. A web of diamonds, enchanting to behold, and inexplicably, Zuko thinks that perhaps this is the answer that he seeks.

"What do you see?" it asks. "Come closer."

He does, and it is as if the web expands to comprise the entire cosmos, the world at his fingertips. Every jewel, bright and shining, contains the perfect reflection of every other jewel in the web, an infinite tapestry of mirrors reflected in mirrors reflected in mirrors, containing the universe. Everything is interconnected. No image changes in one reflection without changing in all reflections.

"What do you see?"

" _Everything."_

The world, both human and spirit, is contained herein, but he remembers that he came here on a mission, and he wrenches himself away from the overwhelming sight, this limitless perception of all. He has a name, now, and a place to go.

"I have to go now."

"You have more people to help," it says wisely. "Go in peace."

He turns to go, then looks back. At this distance, several paces away, the web once again seems forbidding and grim, swirls of mist obscuring the web. Beyond it, the land plunges into a steep gorge from which a thick, heavy fog emanates, cloying his lungs and striking him with fear.

"What is that place?" He should know what it is; he saw it in the web, yet something keeps him from saying it.

"It is the Fog of Lost Souls," the spider-fly says without passion, as if it is merely a neutral gatekeeper for a place with a name like that. "It is an eternal prison. Those trapped in it relive their worst memories day after day. The only way to escape is the same way you enter: through the mind."

Zuko nods. This world is unlike the physical: here, the mind and the body are one and the same. The errant fancies of the mind become solid and permanent in the real world. Emotions become reality, and if those lost in the fog remain spellbound by darkest emotions for long enough, they may never escape. He shudders, turning his back on the Fog of Lost Souls, hoping that he will never come here again.

ZZZ

The spirit world is eerie and foreign, but with the knowledge of the jeweled net, he finds his way over terrain both welcoming and wary, foggy meadows and brazen, sun-drenched, desert-like stretches, no two places exactly alike. Time is immaterial here, and he does not know how long it takes before the shadow of Mount Hai-Riyo looms on the horizon. He knows, however, who awaits him at its peak. Its craggy, steep paths give way to a smooth plateau at the top. There sprawls a giant nest, in reality not unlike an eagle's roost. In its center rests the sun spirit, a golden plumed dragon-bird whose neck stretches three men's height above the ground. Its scarlet eyes are cold and depthless as they settle on him.

He bows awkwardly, unsure of the etiquette here. Perhaps he should afford the spirit the courtesy of a foreign dignitary? That would include listing out all his titles, at least the ones Zuko's aware of. He's not too familiar with spirit hierarchy.

"Greetings, Jinwu, Lord of Mount Hai-Riyo, guardian spirit of the sun."

The sun spirit peers haughtily down at him. "And who might you be?"

"Uh… the Avatar."

"Hm! You again," Jinwu spits. It clacks its beak derisively, feathers fanning out in an alarming display behind its head. "The Avatar is not welcome here, not after what you've done."

Zuko takes a cautious step back, unnerved. "I'm sorry… what do you mean?"

Jinwu fixes a beady eye on him. "You are a fledgling, so I suppose it is not unusual that you have not spoken with your forebears. In one of your past lives, you were a great archer named Hou Yi. You shot down nine of my nestmates as they crossed the heavens, several thousand years ago, leaving only me to shine upon the earth."

"But…" The legend is familiar to Zuko; every child in the Fire Nation knows Hou Yi's story. He saved the world from a devastating drought caused by the ten suns frolicking through the sky at once, so it is told in myth. "I didn't know he was a real person, let alone the Avatar."

"Much of human history has been lost to the darkness of long years," Jinwu dismisses. "Your lives are short, your generations forget what once was, and the truth is colored by those who prevail, whether righteous or evil. Thus, you never learn from your mistakes, and you come to me, daring to ask me for a favor without knowing of our feud."

"How did you know I came to ask a favor?"

"What else do humans do but desire what is not theirs? To be human is to want. To transcend humanity is to let go."

Be that as it may… he has to try. "How do you know that what I want benefits myself alone and not the spirits as well?" Zuko challenges.

Jinwu towers over Zuko, the radiance of its golden wings blocking out the sky. "Surprise me then, human."

He sighs, not knowing how to phrase this. The spider-fly spirit was so much more accepting.

"You sail over the sky and the world below it every day. You know of the chaos and destruction wrought by the Fire Nation. And as the sun spirit, you know that a comet is coming, a celestial being that will waft the power of all firebenders into a swollen tide that cannot be faced by any force. The world will crumble at the hands of Fire Lord Ozai, and there will be nothing left to grow in the ashes. It will be just like when the ten suns tumbled through the sky unchecked, except that this time, I need your help to upend the heavens and the earth and stop this disaster from happening."

"If your people take over the world, it won't be long before they wipe themselves out too," Jinwu says viciously, almost wishful. "The Fire Lord will rule alone over a barren world, and we as spirits will reclaim the earth as we have not had the opportunity for thousands of years. I, for one, cannot see any cons to this situation. As long as we spirits do not meddle in human affairs, the world will change in our favor."

"Spirits will be hurt too if things don't change for the better!" Zuko remembers Senlin, the Painted Lady, how they lived harmoniously in the human world after all. "Spirits still live in the physical world even now; I've met them. They can't withstand this pain and destruction. You can't sacrifice them just to watch everything burn.

Zuko paces before Jinwu's nest, frustrated, outwitted by the dragon-bird's recalcitrance. "Please, Jinwu. All you would have to do is cease your daily flight for a set amount of time when the comet arrives, to darken the sun so that no firebenders can control their element. That's it; you can leave the rest to me. Can't you help?"

Jinwu rises, stalking towards Zuko, and he notes that the sun spirit has three legs, its claws cruelly hooked and sharp. "By no means will I help an arrogant, naïve young Avatar doesn't know what he is asking for. Spirits do not help humans, end of story. You should go back to your human world and make do with what you have, Avatar."

 _I have,_ he thinks, dismayed, then a thousandfold displeased and unimpressed. He thinks of how much he and Azula have sacrificed to get this far: escaped their father and their country, faced hardship and harrowing near-death encounters, crossed a scalding desert, crossed the frigid seas, struggled and fought and fell down and learned from their mistakes to rise again. So have their friends, so have Aang, Toph, Katara, Sokka, Haru, every single person they've recruited in support of harmony and peace, in the face of imminent disaster and no guarantee for success. They have given everything they could and made do with everything they have, and Jinwu has decided to essentially make that struggle worthless.

He seethes, face hidden from the sun spirit, and the view from the peak of Mount Hai-Riyo swims before his eyes, resolving itself into a new plan.

The spider-fly he encountered struggling in its own trap was hostile towards him at first, until he sent kindly thoughts and wishes to it through its web. Its darkness was dispelled and replaced by good, and Zuko wonders if he cannot likewise overcome Jinwu's stubbornness. The only way to extinguish the sun on the day of Sozin's comet is to force Jinwu to deviate from its usual path through the sky, for the sun to wink out of existence for as long as it is necessary to secure the victory. All he has to do is restrain Jinwu by overwhelming it with his thoughts and emotions. It will be his own battle, in a sense.

A peal of thunder cracks nearby, and he jumps, startled out of his reverie. He looks up; the sky has turned dark with ominous storm clouds. Lightning flashes, and he stumbles backwards as Jinwu approaches, its golden coat now tinged with dark hues, a menacing glow surrounding it like a halo. It is monstrous and terrible, and Jinwu spreads its wings, their span overshadowing Zuko, and he realizes…

 _Your emotions become your reality._ His brooding thoughts about forcing Jinwu to comply turned the spirit world dark and brewed this spell for disaster.

"How dare you? You, a lowly human, propose to turn on the great sun spirit and compel me to your service?" Jinwu hisses, voice now magnified into a choir of cacophonous, demonic tones, as vast as the universe and equally as horrifying in its emptiness. " _ **How dare you.**_ "

Jinwu almost fills the entire horizon now with its wingspan, Zuko's panicked thoughts fueling its might, and he lashes out with one arm, thinking to fend off the demonic bird, only to find that his bending is useless here. He's alone, trapped in a web of his own making, like the spider-fly, like the people in the Fog of Lost Souls. Lost forever, never to be found again.

"You think you can control me? Spare the thought, _human—_ _ **I will show**_ **you** _ **what it's like to be controlled.**_ "

Jinwu rears up to its full height, wings beating mightily, three legs drawn in close against its body, and Zuko screams, a terrible sound indistinguishable from the ghastly screech of the dragon-bird, for suddenly, inconceivably, they are one and the same.

* * *

 **AZULA**

She resigns herself to a long wait as Zuko's silent form continues to remain unmoving. Either he's lost, or he's run into a particularly long-winded spirit. She quashes down an impatient sigh and focuses on Zuko.

He's stronger now, wiser now. Everything about his demeanor, from the way he addresses his companions evenly as the indisputable leader, to the ease with which he was willing to accept Azula's audience, suggests how he has grown. He has learned patience and diplomacy, working with oppressed villages that probably weren't keen on accepting a banished Avatar as a savior. He reminds Azula a little of their cousin. As much as she never admitted it while he was alive, Lu Ten had proven his worth on the battlefield, the merit of his strategy and command not coming second to his alleged devotion and kindness toward his men.

 _We make ourselves upon models of mightier figures,_ she laments. _He chose Lu Ten and look who I chose._

If they win, and that is still a question that dangles by a thread, the next question will be: who will succeed Fire Lord Ozai?

She neglects to refine an answer in the moment, losing herself in examination of the scar bestowed by their father. It is the first time she has seen it in person, a terrible reminder of their father's bestiality. She reminisces on that day when the Fire Lord summoned her, and how she would have a matching scar if his hand had been a little less steady.

Their lives have been the stuff of nightmares, yet together they have finally escaped.

She notes a faint furrow cross his brow, a grimace encompassing his face as if he's in pain. "Zuko?"

A fine tremor takes ahold of his body, a horrified gasp though his eyes remain closed. His back arches, fists clenched in a paroxysm of terror.

"Zuko!"

Something's not right. Suddenly, his eyes snap open, and they are vermilion, bloody, terrifying, his entire body suffused with a golden glow that shines bright and brighter, like the halo of an avenging demon. Backlit by its glow, he seems monstrous and awful, and as he towers over her in the darkened hall, her eyes begin to betray her.

For it is her father who stands before her, Fire Lord Ozai with blood in his eyes and blood on his mind as he raises one hand, a condemning monolith here to sentence her once more for faults not her own—

"No," she chokes out, falling onto her hands and pushing herself away with frantic feet as he advances on her. "No… you can't… _you can't,_ I _won't_ let you hurt me again—"

Lightning wells up inside of her, and she must strike before he does. She gathers it up, separating the chi and letting it reunite as she points two fingers straight at his heart.

* * *

 **HARU**

Aang beams as he lands on solid ground, the glider wheels touching down a little unevenly but still quite smooth. "You're a natural," he praises. "I remember it took me a couple years to get comfortable with my glider staff when I first started airbending." He spins his staff with two hands, nearly taking out Teo's eye with his whims. "My mother despaired that I would ever get off the ground by myself."

Haru accepts his praise graciously, an unpleasant reminder welling up in his throat as he registers Aang's words. "Actually… I met your mother a few months ago when we passed through Chin Village."

"You did?" He gapes, pleasantly surprised. "How is she?"

"Er…"

He decides to let Jinora speak for herself, revealing the letters she entrusted to him, one her own and one from Avatar Tenzin, all that is left now of their earthly lives.

"Uh, here. She left you these."

"Left…?" Aang takes the missives with some confusion and looks them over, the smile slowly fading from his lips as he reads.

"I'm sorry. If it's any comfort, she departed peacefully, and we laid her to rest as she requested, under the open sky, on a cliff facing southwest, at high tide with the salt spray strong in the air."

Haru knew this moment would come, but he still feels ill-equipped to deliver the news of Jinora's death and handle the aftermath of grief. He's spared any further awkwardness as a searing bright light precipitously fills the sky, emanating from the peak across the gorge where the main temple stands. His stomach drops. He knows that light, has seen it illuminate a dark sky just like this one, moments before annihilating dozens and clearing their path to freedom.

"Zuko," Aang breathes. In an instant, his glider staff snaps open and he takes flight towards the temple, leaving the rest of them behind.

 _Azula…_

* * *

 **AANG**

He bursts into the temple ahead of everyone else, snapping his glider shut and dropping it carelessly as the doors yield to him like air. A scream, a flash of light, the smoky smell like a forest fire after a lightning strike, and he searches for Zuko amid the chaos. His heart misses a beat.

Zuko lies there on the floor, unmoving, limbs askew as if thrown from a great height. Beside him, Azula kneels, hair in unraveled waves, breathing hard and staring at the body as if she can't believe what she sees.

 _What is there not to believe?_ Aang thinks, livid. She was the only one in here with Zuko, and after a flash of lightning, here she is alive and well while he… he…

"Azula!" he roars. "What have you done?!"

Her head snaps up, her gaze wild, lips stretched wide around heaving breaths, and she rears up on her haunches, hands at the ready to attack again—

Before she can, Aang seizes his chance, sensing the turbulent currents around her, and he searches deep into the bottom of her lungs, dragging the air out from their depths.

It is like the bellsong, he thinks madly as her hands fly to her throat. Pulling the currents and twisting every trail of blessed air just as he and Zuko did a few weeks ago, Azula's gasps and splutters like the music of tinkling bells. Around and around him he winds the volume of air that once occupied her lungs, the strands comprising her last breath, robbed from her as she stole Zuko's. It is justice.

She collapses to hands and knees, then slumps to lie on her side, face once red with exertion now blue without oxygen, unable to lift a finger to help herself, and still—still there is more air left for him to gather. He will not stop until she is completely empty.

"Azula!"

Haru is here, and before Aang can react, he lifts a massive block of stone under their feet. Aang loses his balance and his grip on Azula, and before he can regain his composure, another heavy mass slams into his gut, winding him. He struggles to raise his head, only to see Haru charging towards the head of the hall, lifting Azula into his arms, prepared to escape.

"No…" He can't let them get away. " _No…"_

Footsteps rush past him, the doors slam, and silence reigns once more.

He's barely aware of the others rushing into the room, focused only on Zuko's limp body in his arms, the fabric of his shirt over his heart burned away, a raw expanse of scalded skin there, a fatal wound.

"Aang! Zuko!" Katara hurries to his side. "Is he…?"

He cannot hear the air rise and fall under Zuko's chest, nor feel the pulse bounding in Zuko's neck. He shakes his head blankly, the movement empty like his soul. Nothing matters right now; he cannot muster the will to open his mind and think about anything.

"He took a glider and fled with her; it happened too fast," he hears Teo from the front of the hall. "I've sent our best airmen after them, but we had no warning. I can't say if we'll catch up to them tonight." It's not clear who he's talking to, but Aang doesn't care.

"Aang, let me try something?" Katara's gentle hands pry his away from Zuko's body.

"It's no use," he murmurs drunkenly. "Gone…"

"No," she says, firm and resolute. "I still have this." She holds up a glass pendant filled with water and uncaps it. "If this doesn't work, nothing else will."

She bends the water out into a disc, and its faint glow illuminates her hand as she presses it to Zuko's chest.

A long breathless moment of brilliant light, drawn faces weary and grievous, and then the chest beneath his hands expands, lips part under a tired inhale, and Zuko's eyes ease open ever so slightly. He lives.

 _He lives._

* * *

 **A/N** : That's it for _blood in the breeze_ , friends! The next book is the series finale, titled _heaven need a sinner_ , and is now posted! Keep reading to find out what happens in the aftermath of the siblings' disastrous reunion. Side note: rating increase. There will be some explicit content in later chapters, so gird your loins I guess - I will try to set them off in standalone, skippable chapters.

Finally, thank you all so very very much for reading and interacting 3 I wouldn't still be writing this if not for you all. This plot bunny has been wildly out of control since the very beginning, and I am so thankful for everyone who's along for the ride :* Please continue to read/comment—it will really make my day if you tell me what you liked about it, no matter how small of a detail. If you ever include this series in a rec list or recommend it to your friends, please tell me so I can smother you in hugs and kisses (or virtual cookies if that's what you'd prefer :D) I love you all! Okay! Enough gushing :3

The writing notes are below, discussing the origins of Jinwu, the jeweled net, some of my favorite scenes, spirit world stuff, and more. archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/45530299


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